A Moment In Time
by VermillionChameleon
Summary: Harry Potter is less than happy to be forced to work with his arch-enemy in potions class, especially considering how convinced he is that Draco Malfoy is up to something far more dangerous than usual. In his search to find out how Malfoy intends to threaten Hogwarts, Harry stumbles across things he would really rather not have known, and feelings he wishes he didn't have. Drarry
1. Chapter 1 - First Potions Class

It had only been a few days since term had started and already the novelty of coming back to Hogwarts was wearing thin. Initially, the joy of being able to use magic again, of seeing friends, of meals taken in the Great Hall and evenings lounging in the common room, had made Harry feel lighter than air. The relief of being back where he belonged, and finally having everyone understand the truth, had been euphoric.

But now that elation had passed and the drag of day-to-day school life was returning in full force. None of the professors were wasting any time in setting long essays and complicated research projects, to be completed by the next day or else, and the thrill of last year's victory had been all but obscured by the rising tide of darkness as Voldemort gained power.

Even so, Harry was glad to be back. Better here at Hogwarts, here amongst friends and magic, within the familiar walls that were his one real home, than back with the Dursley's, minding his manners as best he could and trying to keep in touch by the slow means of Hedwig's regular flights to The Burrow.

Nevertheless, it was with mixed feelings that Harry hurried beside Ron down to the dungeons, all set to be late for his first and unexpected potions lesson. Though being unable to get a N.E.W.T in the subject had rather punctured his intended career path, it hadn't been without relief that Harry had given up on the subject with which he had struggled so painfully for the past five years. It had been nice to know that this year would provide fewer opportunities for humiliating failure.

"Sorry we're late, sir," Harry panted, arriving in the doorway only five minutes after he should have been there. "I didn't know I'd be taking potions this year, you see."

"Harry, my boy!" Professor Slughorn looked up, delighted. "No worries, no worries! Come and take a place. Always good to see you!"

Hermione beamed at the two boys from her otherwise empty table and gestured rapidly. With relief, Harry and Ron walked over to join her, taking up the stations on either side of her.

"You're late," she hissed. "Where were you?"

"Not taking potions, remember?" Harry whispered in reply. "Why didn't you tell me I would be able to carry on this year?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and smiled. "I don't know _everything_ , you know."

At the front of the classroom, Slughorn was pacing up and down, studying his small class of N.E.W.T students with a good-tempered but patronising air.

"No, no, no," he said, jovially, "This won't do! Separating yourselves out into house groups like this! We'll have to mix it up a little."

The students looked blankly at one another. Mix it up? What was he talking about?

"You need to meet some new people," Slughorn smiled. "Make new friends. Encounter new ways of thinking. We can't have you always working with the same partners, can we?"

Hermione raised her hand tentatively.

"Yes!" Slughorn pointed at her. "You have a question?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione looked puzzled. "Isn't the whole point of the house system that we spend time surrounded by like-minded people, sir? Otherwise, why have the Sorting at all?"

"The Sorting is all very well," Slughorn answered, "but this is potions. It's about creativity! About new ideas! About discovering new thoughts! Besides, in times like these, surely inter-house cooperation and friendship is exactly what we should be encouraging. Wouldn't you agree, Miss…?"

"Granger," Hermione supplied. "Hermione Granger."

"Granger, Granger," Slughorn mused. "Any relation to Dagworth-Granger, the famous potioneer?"

"I doubt it," Hermione replied, honestly. "I'm muggle-born, you see."

Harry saw the thin-lipped smiles from the Slytherin table and his hands clenched into fists. No doubt they were expecting Slughorn to express the same preferential treatment to pure-bloods as they had come to expect from Snape. On the contrary, however, Slughorn looked delighted.

"O-ho!" he cried. "Harry, didn't you tell me about your muggle-born friend? The cleverest girl in the year, didn't you say? Is this the friend you spoke of?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, startled.

"Oh, did you really say that?" Hermione whispered, grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, Harry!"

"Well, why wouldn't he?" Ron muttered, mutinously. "You are the cleverest girl in the year. I'd have said that if he asked me."

But Hermione shushed with a gesture and turned back, smiling, to face Slughorn again.

"No, no," Slughorn sighed, "much as I hate to tear you from your friends, I think it best if we try to overcome our prejudices in this classroom, hmm? So, let's see…Miss Granger…where shall we have you work?"

Harry watched, horrified, as the students were redistributed until, rather than people being conveniently separated into groups of their friends, nobody was at all happy with where they had ended up. Hermione was exiled to the far side of the room with a pretty Ravenclaw girl and a Slytherin boy, who regarded the pair of them with loathing. Ron was trapped with Blaise Zabini, and looking decidedly uncomfortable about it.

"And Mr Malfoy, why don't you come and work with Mr Potter for the time being?" Slughorn said, cheerfully. "Lovely!"

Malfoy – who, until now, had been flicking through his textbook with paying the slightest attention to proceedings – looked up in horror.

"What?" he said, sharply. "What are you talking about?"

"Come and work here," Slughorn repeated, patiently, "next to Mr Potter."

"Oh, no, sir," Harry said, quickly. "It's alright. We can stay where we are. Really…"

"Now, Mr Malfoy," Slughorn said, testily. "Really, Harry, I expected you of all people to appreciate an effort to rally forces inside our hallowed school. You in particular must know the value of cooperation, hmm?"

Harry fumbled helplessly for a suitable argument but there was nothing to say. With an expression that clearly voiced his opinion on the subject, Malfoy gathered up his things and slunk over to the empty station that, until recently, had been Hermione's. Unconsciously, Harry shuffled a few inches away from him, as far as the layout of the workbench would let him go.

"Make my life difficult," Malfoy hissed, "and you'll regret it, Potter."

Harry didn't reply. He was too busy sinking down into a personal spiral of gloom. Potions with Hermione there to help him and Ron beside him to do comparatively worse was a trial in itself. Potions in the constant company of Draco Malfoy who, quite aside from having proved himself unbearable in their years together, possessed an infuriating gift for the subject was likely to be unspeakably awful.

Slughorn was talking again, apparently unaware that his previously eager classroom was now regarding him with deep dislike and an inherent distrust of their neighbours.

"Now, can anybody tell me what this is?"

He gestured to a small cauldron sitting on his desk. If Harry stood on his tiptoes, he could just see the contents: a liquid of the most brilliant gold whose droplets occasionally leapt from the surface like fish before disappearing again. He'd never seen it before, but something about it was mesmerising.

As expected, Hermione's hand was first in the air. "It's Felix Felicis!"

Slughorn nodded approvingly. "Which is?"

"Liquid luck," Hermione said, excitably. "It's the most powerful luck potion known to wizardkind!"

"Precisely," Slughorn smiled. "Precisely. One drop of this and all your endeavours shall be fruitful. Just one drop, and nothing you attempt shall go wrong."

"Then why don't people drink it all the time?" demanded a dark-haired Slytherin girl. "If it's that good, why don't we just brew gallons of it?"

"Legality," Slughorn said, sadly. "It's a highly dangerous substance. Addictive. It'll destroy you if you take too much, have you thinking that you don't need oxygen to breathe, that fire won't burn you, that avada kedavra won't kill you. No, even a small dose has risk enough attached."

"Have you ever taken it?" a Ravenclaw asked, eagerly.

"Three times in my life," Slughorn nodded. "Three spoonfuls, taken with breakfast. Three perfect days."

He stared, misty-eyed, into the distance, as if looking back on some great endeavour that could never be described in words. Whether or not it was real – and Harry highly suspected it wasn't, given Slughorn's penchant for showmanship – the effect was good.

"And this," Slughorn appeared to shake himself from his reverie, "is what I'm offering as a prize in today's lesson. One bottle of Felix Felicis to whoever brews the best potion."

Harry stood up straight and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Malfoy do the same. Around the room, everyone's eyes were suddenly bright and alert. Everybody wanted some liquid luck. Everybody was prepared to fight for it.

"Today, we'll be brewing an Essence of Euphoria," Slughorn announced. "You'll find the recipe in your textbooks. Get going! May the best man win!"

There was a flurry of movement as students raced to unpack their things, flicking through their textbooks to find the relevant page. Harry raised his hand, alone in the chaos.

"Harry, my boy!" Slughorn boomed. "What can I do for you?"

"I didn't know I was taking this class," Harry apologised, "so I don't have any of the equipment."

"No matter," Slughorn waved this aside. "You can borrow whatever you need from my cupboard until you can get your own. There should be a few old copies of textbooks left behind in there too."

Harry gestured to Ron and they met at the supply cupboard. Ron looked disgruntled, shooting angry glances back at his own workbench.

"That bloody Zabini," he muttered. "Posing and twitching and making snide comments. I'll hex him if he's not careful."

"Well, don't do anything too stupid," Harry sighed. "At least you're not stuck with Malfoy."

"Hard luck," Ron patted him on the shoulder. "If he's any trouble, make like Mad-Eye Moody and turn him into a ferret."

For a moment, that familiar image made the two of them smile and the misery of the classes ahead of them seemed less of a problem. Reality returned swiftly when Harry opened the supply cupboard and they saw the two books waiting for them.

"Mine!" Ron shouted, snatching at them before Harry could make a move. "This one's mine!"

Harry groaned as he picked up the dog-eared copy that was left, holding it between finger and thumb. The cover was only half-attached, the binding broken.

"Really?" he complained. "Malfoy and a book that's been around since the sixth century?"

"Life's hard," Ron said, cheerfully. "Can't hang around. I want to win that potion!"

Wondering only vaguely what Ron could so desperately want a luck potion for, Harry carried his supplies and his battered textbook back to the workbench. Malfoy was already hard at work, chopping up roots with an expression of singular focus. Harry pulled a face at his bent head and opened the textbook, flicking through to find the recipe for Essence of Euphoria.

It didn't take him long to find out the true problem with his borrowed book. The previous owner had crammed the pages full of notes in near-illegible handwriting, crossing out the original recipes and scribbling his opinions in the margins. Harry strained his eyes trying to see past them, wishing a fiery death unto whoever had thought overwriting the instructions was a good idea.

"Having trouble, Potter?" Malfoy smirked, as his potion turned a perfect shade of violet. "What a shame."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry snapped.

"Touchy," Malfoy gave a relaxed sigh. "Is life getting stressful now for the Boy Who Lived?"

Harry snarled but ignored him, returning to deciphering the layers of ink in his textbook. His own potion bubbled ominously in his cauldron, an entirely different hue from the vibrant pink he was supposed to have achieved by this point. The next step had been scribbled out entirely, so thickly blocked that Harry had no hope of understanding it. Instead, the scribbler had written: _Crush roots with flat of blade. Add juice and stir counter-clockwise._

With nothing else to do and no hope at all, Harry did exactly that. To his disbelief, the potion turned fuchsia. The more he stirred, the pinker it became. All his previous ill thoughts about the previous owner evaporated as he bent over, trying to figure out the handwriting.

When Slughorn eventually called for them to stop, Harry could barely hide his excitement. The professor made his slow way around the dungeon, nodding and occasionally making small comments. No potion appeared to more than reluctantly satisfy him until he came to Harry's cauldron. His face broke into a wide smile.

"Harry!" he declared. "This is perfect! The prescribed shade of indigo, the spiralling smoke, and…what's that I smell? Mint? A novel idea but an inspired one! That should counteract some of the nastier side effects. Everybody, take a look at Potter's cauldron, won't you? This is clearly the hallmark of natural talent. Just like your mother, eh, Potter?"

Harry suppressed a smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Well, the winner is clear," Slughorn announced. "Here you go, Harry, as promised. One bottle of Felix Felicis. Strictly banned from all examinations and sporting events, of course. Use it wisely, my boy."

"I will, sir."

Harry grasped the little glass vial tightly, unable to disguise his glee. He saw Ron's look of disbelief and Hermione's narrowed eyes but he didn't mind either of them. Beside him, Malfoy began to pack up with an expression of twisted fury. His own attempt had been rated merely "passable, passable".

"What's the matter, Malfoy?" Harry taunted. "Having trouble?"

Malfoy's lip curled. "How'd you do it, Potter? How'd you cheat?"

Harry laughed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We've been in the same potions class for five years," Malfoy snapped, "and you've never once brewed anything more than worthless gunge. So how did you cheat, Potter?"

"Maybe my natural ability suddenly surfaced?" Harry suggested, elated by his first ever potions success.

Malfoy cursed him under his breath and left the dungeon with the usual muttered insults about his family and his heritage. For once, Harry didn't care. Perhaps potions wasn't going to be so bad after all.


	2. Chapter 2 - Theories About Malfoy

Not at all to Harry's surprise, Hermione did not approve of the ancient textbook.

"It's not cheating," Harry protested. "I'm only following what's written in the book."

"It is cheating," she retorted, "and you know it. It's not about ability, it's about whether you can copy from someone else. That's cheating!"

Ron groaned theatrically. "Let it go, Hermione! You're just annoyed because you didn't win that potion."

"Well, so were you!" Hermione snapped.

"Nah, I just wish I hadn't been so keen to get the neat book now," Ron grinned at Harry. "You lucky bastard."

"Makes up for working next to Malfoy," Harry returned the grin, "being able to piss him off like this."

Hermione gave an indignant huff. "Well, just get on and order a real book, won't you? Then you can give the graffitied copy back and we can all get on with our lives."

The argument, or variants of it, continued over the next few weeks as Harry proceeded to produce exemplary potions, earning the praise of Professor Slughorn and the ire of his classmates. Harry didn't mind. School had never been easier.

Potions soon became his favourite lesson. It was a breeze to follow the written instructions, brewing successful results swiftly and easily. Slughorn rarely gave such arduous essays as other teachers, and even the potential horror of sharing a station with Malfoy turned out to be no trouble at all. In fact, Malfoy was being no trouble at all.

It didn't take Harry long to notice that his enemy rarely paid him any attention, except to cast the occasional enraged look when Harry smugly presented his perfect work beside Malfoy's more mediocre attempt. The usual verbal assaults and unplanned duels seemed to have evaporated this year, disappeared into history.

Harry didn't feel as relieved as he should have done. Perversely, he felt neglected. Despising Malfoy was a familiar distraction from the bigger troubles in his life – Voldemort-sized troubles – but it was hard to maintain that age-old grudge when they weren't in direct conflict.

"You're being ridiculous," Hermione informed him. "Why would we want that creep throwing his spells and insults around all the time?"

"It's not that," Harry said, wretchedly. "I just feel that he's…I don't know, plotting something. If he's not got the time to fight us, what's he doing?"

Hermione laughed. "Maybe, Harry, he was never as obsessive about hating you as you are about him?"

"Hey, don't be like that!" Ron protested. "That git never lost a chance to make life hard for Harry! Or for either of us! Don't pretend that was all Harry's fault!"

"I'm not, I'm not!" Hermione raised her hands in surrender. "Just, here's a thought that probably hasn't occurred to either of you."

"Oh yeah?" Ron said, suspiciously. "What's that?"

Hermione folded her arms. "Maybe he's grown up."

There was a long pause, before Ron collapsed into howls of laughter. As he fell to the floor, clutching his stomach, Harry couldn't help but join in.

"Grown up!" Ron spluttered. "Grown up!"

Hermione glared at them both. "It's not completely unreasonable, you know! He's sixteen now. Maybe he's decided that this ridiculous feud with Harry is beneath him."

"Listen, 'mione," Ron wiped tears of hilarity from his eyes. "This is Malfoy we're talking about. Malfoy. Have you ever met anyone more childish than Malfoy?"

"Maybe he's matured," Hermione snapped. "Just because you still act like a pre-schooler, doesn't mean other people aren't thinking about becoming adults."

"Hey!" Ron said, indignantly. "I can be mature!"

"Says the boy rolling around on the floor laughing." Hermione gave them both a withering look. "Not everybody thinks a grudge you held when you were eleven is worth wasting all your energy on."

"Neither do I!" Harry protested.

"No, you're just jealous because he doesn't hate you enough anymore," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, get over yourselves, the pair of you. Who cares what Malfoy's doing? If he's mature enough to leave us alone now, then hurrah for that. Let's get on with our lives."

There was a logic to that which appealed, and Harry was more than happy to drop the subject for the time being and work on persuading Hermione to proof-read his Transfiguration essay, which was due in the next morning. But the idea kept niggling at the back of his mind, not letting go.

"Maybe," Ron announced, as they walked to breakfast several days later, "maybe, he's scared."

"Scared?" Harry frowned.

"Yeah. Maybe he thinks that fighting you will make everybody realise his daddy's a Death Eater and get him put in Azkaban."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, god, this conversation again. Can't you two just leave him alone?"

"Hey, it's Malfoy! He's never up to anything good!" Ron turned back to Harry. "Well? What do you think?"

"In case you haven't noticed," Hermione said, tartly, "he's never cared who knows about his father before."

"Yeah, but this is different, right?" Ron enthused. "Voldemort's back and the Ministry are arresting people as we speak…"

"The wrong people," Harry added. "I don't think Malfoy's going to be afraid of me just because of that."

"No," Ron's face fell. "I guess not."

"Why don't you just drop the subject?" Hermione threw herself down at the Gryffindor table and started heaping toast onto her plate. "Playing 'Guess What Malfoy Is Up To' every day of our lives isn't really going to solve anything."

"What would you rather we were doing?" Harry asked, reaching across her for the scrambled eggs.

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione said, sarcastically. "Figuring out a way to defeat Voldemort, maybe?"

"I've told you," Harry answered, impatiently. "Dumbledore's going to give me information about that. In the meantime, what can I do?"

"Harry!" Hermione threw her hands in the air. "You can work! You're the Chosen One! How do you expect to defeat Voldemort unless you're properly trained? You should be practising defensive spells and reading up on duelling techniques and…"

"But what good is it going to do?" Harry interrupted her. "If all the best wizards and witches who ever lived couldn't defeat him with those techniques, how could I ever hope to?"

Hermione looked flustered. "I don't know, Harry, but you have to try! You can't just do nothing!"

Before Harry could reply, Neville leant across to them, holding that morning's Daily Prophet.

"Have you seen this?" he asked.

"No," Harry took it quickly, before Hermione could say anything more. "What's it about?"

The headlines answered the question more effectively than Neville ever could: **_Muggle family slaughtered by Death Eaters!_**

"It's in Wales," Neville added. "Three kids, the parents and the grandparents. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Suddenly, Harry didn't feel like eating breakfast. He pushed his plate of eggs away, skimming through the article. There was nothing much there, nothing to say where Voldemort was or what his plans were. As always, the Prophet didn't have a clue.

"And you see her?" Neville pointed across to the Hufflepuff table. "Rachel Barker?"

"The crying second-year," Hermione supplied, when Harry looked blank.

Harry saw her. A fluffy-haired little thing with puffy eyes, her head resting on her friend's shoulder.

"Yeah? What about her?"

"Her older brother was killed yesterday," Neville said, grimly. "Death Eaters. They don't put that in the Prophet, though, do they?"

"Then how do you know?" Ron asked, eyeing the girl suspiciously.

"I know people in Hufflepuff," Neville told him. "She got a letter yesterday. Hasn't stopped crying since. She asked to be taken out of school for the funeral but her parents said she'd be safer here. They think Dumbledore can protect her."

Involuntarily, all four of them glanced up to the staff table, where Dumbledore's seat was conspicuously empty. Nobody knew where he was, only that he'd been missing since the start of term.

"Well, Harry?" Hermione said, sotto voce. "Is Malfoy the biggest worry now?"

Harry sighed heavily. "Alright, Hermione. I'll do more work."

"All I'm asking is for a little effort," Hermione wouldn't meet his eyes. "I don't want you dying, Harry. Or you, Ron. All of this is bad enough without that."

Ron looked startled to have been included in that and, for a moment, gaped at Hermione like a fish. She covered her embarrassment by hastily taking a bite of toast and choking on it. While Ron thumped her on the back, Harry let his eyes drift to the Slytherin table.

There was Malfoy, sitting in his usual place between Crabbe and Goyle. He looked pale, Harry thought, and drawn. His usually pristine appearance had become ragged around the edges and, while the others talked, he stared off into the distance as though there was something else weighing heavily on his mind. Harry frowned as he watched him, not eating a bite.

When Malfoy's eyes swung round, Harry looked away hastily, returning his attention to the breakfast in front of him, but he couldn't get Malfoy's appearance out of his mind. Could Hermione be right? Had Malfoy just outgrown their childish enmity? Or was there something more? What could make him look so gloomy and bedraggled, when he should have been rejoicing at Voldemort's rising power?

Harry didn't know, but he had his suspicions and he didn't like any of them.


	3. Chapter 3 - Partners

The chance to drag an answer out of Malfoy arrived sooner than expected. In early November, Slughorn proposed a new project.

"This week," he announced, "we're going to be brewing a love potion. I had considered leaving this until Valentine's Day to make it a bit more seasonable, but I thought a little friendly competition might spice things up a bit."

Several of the girls smiled secretive smiles, looks Harry had long ago learned not to trust. He wasn't sure teaching sixth-year students how to make love potions was a good idea at all, but there was nothing he could do about it.

"Now, most love potions are very complex," Slughorn continued, "and take a long time to make. As it is, you have one week. I'll leave the dungeon open at all hours, in case you need to come and check on your potions. What you make, of course, is entirely down to you. You may choose anything that you think comes under the heading 'love potion'. Whichever one turns out best shall win an as-yet-unspecified prize. Do you understand?"

There was a general chorus of agreement. Harry cast his mind into his potions textbook, trying to remember which love potions the previous owner had made the most adaptations to. He thought he would do best trusting to them rather than the book's own opinions.

"There is, of course, a catch," Slughorn smiled, benevolently. "For this task, I will have you working in partners."

Harry's heart plummeted. "What?" he said, involuntarily.

"In partners, Harry," Slughorn kept on smiling. "This is a team exercise. So you, for example, will be working with Mr Malfoy."

Harry cast Malfoy a horrified glance, which was met with a look of deep disgust.

"But, sir…"

"Not now, Harry!" Slughorn raised his hands. "I am the teacher, after all. I have spoken. I shouldn't think that you'll mind this competition, given your prowess and Mr Malfoy's not inconsiderable abilities? You have a fortunate team."

"That's exactly why it's unfair," Ron spoke up, quickly. "You've paired two of the best students together! Now, if I went with Harry and Malfoy went with…"

"Mr Weasley," Slughorn said, patiently, "you will be working with Mr Zabini. That is my final word on the matter. Is that understood?"

Ron scuffed his feet along the ground. "Yes, sir."

He and Harry shared a commiserating look. Working in partners seemed an unnecessary torture to inflict upon them all.

"Good!" Slughorn clapped his hands. "Then get to it! As of now, the competition begins! Oh, and let me remind you that I will take a very dim view of sabotage."

The class burst into life, people chattering excitedly about the possibilities of love potion and the as-yet-unspecified prize. Harry turned with a sinking heart to Malfoy, who raised his eyebrows and smirked.

"So loathe to work with me, Potter?"

Harry glared at him. "If we have to work together, we ought to agree to cooperate, don't you think?"

"Oh, fine, fine," Malfoy drawled. "So what are your opinions, O Grand Potions Master? What miraculous idea do you have for us?"

Biting down a sharp comment of his own, Harry scanned the contents page of his textbook.

"How about Amortentia?" he suggested.

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow. "The most powerful love potion in the world? Sounds dangerous, Potter. Who are you intending to seduce?"

"Leave off, Malfoy," Harry snapped. "Do you have another idea?"

"No, no, by all means," Malfoy waved a languid hand. "Amortentia it is, then. Does this mean I finally get to see the unexpected genius of the Chosen One at work?"

Harry hesitated, the realisation that he and Malfoy would be following different recipes just occurring to him. Malfoy smiled slowly.

"Oh, suddenly worried I'll work out your methods?"

Harry scowled but didn't reply. In one elegant movement, before Harry could stop him, Malfoy leant across the desk and swept up Harry's textbook.

"Hey!" Harry cried. "Give that back!"

Malfoy skimmed through the pages, his smile broadening all the while. Harry hovered anxiously, knowing the game was up.

"Well, well, well," Malfoy smirked. "Now it all makes sense. Too good to follow the same recipes as the rest of us, Potter? You have to be helped out by…the Half-Blood Prince?"

"The…who?" Harry blinked.

Malfoy turned the book around and showed him the back cover. "Half-Blood Prince, Potter. Do you even know who he is?"

Sure enough, there the title was, written neatly on the inside of the back cover. _This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince._ Harry had never noticed it before. He'd never looked for a name.

"Well, I'm sure it's none of my business," Malfoy tossed the book back onto the desk. "At least it proves what we've always known."

"Which is?"

"That you're crap at potions, Potter," Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Well, if you've got the secret recipes, I assume you'll be doing most of the work?"

Harry sighed. "Sure. Whatever."

"So what does your Prince advise we do?" Malfoy tapped his foot impatiently. "Make an effort, Potter. Believe it or not, I'd quite like to win this competition."

The rest of the lesson passed in a haze of potion-smoke and stress. Malfoy had assumed position as the leader of the two, sitting on the workbench and giving instructions, deciphering the Prince's spidery handwriting with far greater ease than Harry ever could. Meanwhile, Harry ran about obeying his orders, knowing full well that he was in no position to argue so long as Malfoy could threaten to reveal the secret of his success.

On the bright side, the Amortentia was brewing nicely. Within the hour of the lesson, they had reached a stage where they could safely leave it to simmer until the evening, when one of them would be required to come and stir it.

"I'll do it," Harry said, reluctantly. "The evenings are getting shorter. Quidditch practice should be finished by then."

Malfoy smirked. "Ah yes. How is the Gryffindor team looking this year? A bit ragged now your only decent players have left, isn't it?"

Harry's knuckles whitened. "Mind your own business, Malfoy."

"Just a friendly enquiry," Malfoy said, innocently. "Now that we're partners, cooperating, working together… A little conversation is hardly a crime. So, how is that Weasley girl shaping up? Has her family scraped together enough money for a broom, or will she just be running around with a handful of twigs and flapping her arms like a pigeon?"

Harry bit down on his tongue until he trusted himself to speak.

"Leave it alone, Malfoy," he managed, his voice hardly shaking. "Worry about your own team's prospects."

"Seeing the state of yours," Malfoy sneered, "I don't think I'll have to."

He left the dungeon with more of a spring in his step than Harry had seen in days, a nonchalant toss of his head signalling his old arrogant ways returning. Harry stood for a few seconds beside his simmering cauldron, calming himself with deep breaths. On the plus side, it was more like talking to the old Malfoy. On the downside, he was back to being a git.

"Harry?" Hermione tapped him on the shoulder. "Are you alright? Ready for Charms?"

"What?" Harry turned. "Oh, yeah. Just packing up my things."

"What are you making, mate?" Ron asked, peering into Harry's cauldron. "It looks horrible."

"It's Amortentia," Harry said, vaguely, gathering his equipment into his schoolbag. "It's supposed to look like that."

"Amortentia?" Hermione said, sharply. "Isn't that a bit risky?"

"Why?" Harry frowned. "It's a love potion. It's in the textbook. What's wrong with it?"

"It's in the textbook as an _example_ , Harry," Hermione emphasised. "Nobody's supposed to actually try and make it! It can be disastrous if you get it wrong!"

"Well, I won't, will I?" Harry grinned. "I have the magic textbook."

"Yeah, you're sure to win," Ron said, mournfully. "I'm stuck with Zabini, who wouldn't know a cauldron from a hat."

"Harry," Hermione asked, in a low voice, "does Malfoy know about the textbook?"

Harry hesitated just a little too long.

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked. "He could tell a teacher at any moment! You could get into so much trouble!"

"Why?" Harry gave his potion one last stir before they left the dungeon. "Slughorn lent it to me. There's no reason why I shouldn't use it."

"Oh, Harry, don't be so naïve," Hermione snapped. "It's against the rules and you know it!"

"Malfoy won't tell," Harry said, firmly. "He wants to win this competition too badly."

"And after the competition?" Hermione's eyes narrowed. "What do you think he'll do then?"

"Oh, lay off him, Hermione," Ron said, lightly. "Malfoy's not going to go tattling to the teachers. Since when did he tell tales?"

"Since when did he not try and get Harry into trouble?" Hermione countered. "Only this year, and that's not to say he won't given the golden opportunity – which this is!"

"Hermione," Ron said, firmly, "you worry too much. We have a Charms lesson to get to."

They were still arguing as they walked to Charms but Harry had stopped listening. He was thinking about the name he could now fix on the person who had helped him so much this year. Well, not a name precisely. A title.

The Half-Blood Prince.

What kind of student knew so much about potions and chose a nickname like that for themselves? Harry longed to find out. If only he knew where to start looking…

It was raining when Quidditch practice began, which did nothing to lighten anybody's spirits. However much Harry hated him for saying it, Malfoy hadn't been wrong in his assessment of the current Gryffindor team. Their star players had left and the replacements were yet to come up to scratch. So far, practices had been fraught with a million minor disasters. Harry was starting to hate his favourite sport.

"Alright, listen up!" he called. "I know the weather's terrible but we need practice flying in poor conditions! So nobody is going to complain to me, alright?"

There was a chorus of reluctant agreement.

"Right! Everybody in the air! Chasers, you're going to be trying to score at much as possible. Ron, you need practice defending in poor visibility. I'll be up above, watching how you do. Understood?"

"Understood," they mumbled, in various tones of misery.

"Then let's go!"

They kicked off in a spray of mud and Harry pushed his firebolt higher into the driving rain. The clouds were low, barely a hundred feet above the ground, and the higher he got, the more claustrophobic they made him feel. Even with his glasses enchanted to repel the water, he was all but blind. His team were mere red blurs streaking past beneath him, the ground almost obscured.

He couldn't be sure how many goals were getting in from this distance, and he was glad this was no real match. It would be a miracle to spot the snitch in this weather. The only time he'd played a real game in conditions this bad, he'd ended up on the ground after a dementor attack. It was not an experience he cared to repeat.

Harry loved to fly. He loved the freedom of it, the speed, the idea of defying one of the most fundamental laws of the universe. He loved how small the world looked from above, how untouchable he felt, how easy it seemed to escape all his worries down on the ground. But when he was flying in weather like this, all the fears came creeping up on him and he could only focus and hope for the best.

He blinked and squinted through the haze to see some kind of altercation going on mid-pitch. With a groan, he angled his broom downwards to see what was going on. No doubt it was another argument with his new beaters, neither of whom seemed to understand that they were supposed to be helping the team, not just speeding around doing exactly as they pleased.

He was midway there when he heard the first rumble of thunder and slowed. Everybody knew about the dangers of flying too near cloud base in a thunderstorm. Being struck by lightning sounded like a hilariously cartoonish way to get hurt, until you considered quite how likely it was to kill you.

In the back of Harry's mind, the miserable game of his third year came creeping back to him. It had been in the thunder, just like this, that the dementors had appeared and sent him spiralling into the darkness with the screams of his dying parents. He shuddered and flexed his frozen fingers to keep his grip on the broomstick strong.

Out of nowhere, he felt his scar twinge. _Oh no, please,_ he thought, _not now. Any time but now._ The pain was only small but Harry had learned to recognise the signs. He pointed his stick for the ground, racing to land before it hit.

He was too slow. The pain seared white-hot lines across his brain, piercing through his scar as if it were trying to skewer his mind. Harry cried out as a jumbled jigsaw of images shattered his vision: fragmented faces, snatches of words, the image of a house, a door, a snake. They were gone in an instant but, by that time, he'd already blacked out.


	4. Chapter 4 - An Inexplicable Scar

Harry opened his eyes to the whiteness of the infirmary ceiling before the space was crammed full of faces. He groaned and closed them again, shutting out the light.

"Harry! Harry!" someone said, urgently. "Are you alright?"

"He'll be fine," came the brisk tones of Madam Pomfrey. "A few nasty bruises but no harm done."

Harry tried wakefulness a second time and the light was less abrasive on his retina. He saw the team looking down at him, with Hermione's anxious face thrown into the mix. He managed a weak smile.

"What happened?"

"You fell off your broom, mate," Ron said, his voice lined with worry. "What happened? You were doing fine."

Harry shook his head, exhaustedly. "Nothing. It was nothing."

"Now that you can see he's fine," Madam Pomfrey interrupted, "the lot of you can stop cluttering up my infirmary. Go on! Out! You're dripping rainwater everywhere!"

With parting remarks of "Sorry, Harry" and "Get better, mate", the Gryffindor Quidditch team left to change out of their sodden robes. Only Ginny, Ron and Hermione remained, faces full of fear.

"Well?" Hermione asked, quietly. "Was it your scar?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."

"Harry!" Ginny gave a little shriek. "I thought that wasn't happening anymore!"

"That's what he told us," Hermione agreed, giving Harry a distrustful look. "I thought you were using Occlumency to keep him out!"

"I was, I was," Harry replied, irritably. "And it was working. Tell them, Ron."

"It's true," Ron hastened to agree. "He hasn't been crying out in his sleep for months."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Maybe you should talk to Dumbledore about it. Maybe now that Voldemort's getting more powerful…"

"Hermione, Hermione," Harry waved a hand, "I can't talk to Dumbledore. He's not at Hogwarts. When he is, I promise, I'll go and see him. Ok?"

Hermione nodded, not looking particularly mollified. "Well, if you think you'll be ok…"

"I'll be fine," Harry insisted. "I just need Madam Pomfrey to let me go so that I can head down to the dungeons for our potions project."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Ron asked. "I mean, you could have concussion or something…"

Harry shook his head. "I'll be fine. You've got a Transfiguration essay to write."

"You have?" Hermione looked at him sharply. "Ron! You told me you'd done that days ago!"

"Thank, Harry," Ron said, sarcastically. "Really helpful."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione sighed, exasperated. "Come on. Harry's fine here. I'll help you."

Ron brightened. "You will? Hermione, you're the best!"

"Honestly," Hermione tutted. "Sometimes I think you only keep my around because I do your work for you."

"Well, not _just_ because of that…"

They were still bickering when they left the infirmary.

"Get better, Harry," Ginny sighed. "Hermione's right, you know. You should be worried."

"How can I be any more worried than I already am?" Harry pointed out. "I don't have any room left in me to fear something new."

Ginny smiled reluctantly. "Just be careful, Harry."

Then she too left. Harry reached up to touch his scar. It felt perfectly normal now, but there was no accounting for what had happened. Voldemort had found a new way in, or perhaps something in their balance had changed. None of the visions he'd seen made sense, but it was only a matter of time.

"You're free to go," Madam Pomfrey announced, after taking numerous tests. "There'll be no lasting damage. Just don't go falling off anymore brooms, Potter."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry promised. "I won't."

Free at last, Harry hurried through the quiet post-dinner corridors to the potions room. Stirring a potion was hardly a strenuous task and he could use some time to himself to think. Dumbledore was absent, Voldemort was rising and now his scar had started twinging again…there was more than enough on his mind.

The dungeon was dimly lit at this time of the day, the various cauldrons sitting on their abandoned work stations. However, the room was far from empty. Bent over Harry's own potion, stirring it slowly, was Malfoy.

Harry stopped when he saw him, unsure what he was supposed to do. As if he sensed him there, Malfoy turned.

"Oh, so you're alive, then," he remarked. "Pity. The rumours were that you'd killed yourself. Falling off your broom again? Clearly the talents of the Chosen One know no bounds."

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, defensively. "I said I'd stir the potion."

"Yes, Potter, I do remember," Malfoy said, in a tone that suggested Harry was hard of thinking, "but since then the school has started buzzing with how poor little Potter fell off his broom and knocked himself out again. I thought that unless I expected your corpse to toddle down here and do it, I should come and stir the potion myself."

For all his tone rankled, Harry couldn't find any issue in what Malfoy was saying.

"Oh," he said, uncertainly. "Ok. Well, I'll take over now, then."

"By all means," Malfoy stepped aside. "Stir away. I'm sure it's a great diversion for you to escape your clinging friends."

"My friends don't cling," Harry said, before he could stop himself rising to it.

"Oh, really?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "The mudblood and the weasel, hanging off your elbow all the time, tugging on your shirtsleeves. That doesn't count as clinging?"

"They're my friends," Harry said, coldly. "I like having them around. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"No," Malfoy feigned a melodramatic pose. "I am friendless and abandoned, with a heart of stone. The lonely prince walks his days in solitude. There's a great hole in my soul that could only be filled by Gryffindor camaraderie which, alas! I shall never know." He dropped the act. "Boohoo, I'm so sad."

"You're so full of yourself," Harry muttered. "Don't you ever shut up?"

"Tetchy, tetchy," Malfoy criticised. "We're partners, remember? Cooperation."

Harry gritted his teeth. "If you'd rather I just did the work, say it. I don't care. It's better than having to spend time with you."

"I'm wounded, Potter," Malfoy smirked. "Truly heart-broken. No, no, I'll do my bit. It's a group project, after all."

"Then shut your face and work."

Malfoy clicked his tongue. "Oh, no, Potter, I think you misunderstand. Don't you want to be careful talking to me? I know the secret of your potions success, after all."

"Don't try and blackmail me," Harry said, tiredly. "You'd never tell."

Malfoy leant forward to whisper in Harry's ear, "Wouldn't I?"

"No," Harry said, tartly. "You wouldn't. Because you want to win this competition."

"True, true," Malfoy sighed. "For the time being, at least, it would be…ill-advised."

"Don't you have anywhere else to go?" Harry demanded. "Surely you've got some first-years to bully?"

Malfoy snorted. "Oh, I've got far more lucrative pastimes than that."

"Then why aren't you busy doing them?" Harry asked, impatiently. "Do your precious cronies not want you anymore?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Pitiful, Potter. Clearly you're out of practice if that's the best insult you can come up with."

"What's the matter with you?" Harry demanded, ceasing stirring to turn around. "You've been acting half-dead all year. Even your insults are half-arsed."

Malfoy laughed loudly. "You've been watching me? How sweet. My life is no concern of yours, Potter. Keep your big nose out of my business, or I'll cut it off and feed it to your owl."

"What's the matter?" Harry taunted. "Voldemort's return not suiting the Malfoy family? No longer everybody's favourite pureblood?"

To his surprise, Malfoy flinched. It was almost imperceptible, and he recovered himself quickly, but Harry had been looking for it and he saw.

"I told you to keep out, Potter," he warned, in a dangerous tone. "You don't want to go messing with me. Pretty soon, your precious Dumbledore will be dead, Hogwarts will fall, and they'll be picking bits of your corpse out of the tapestries. You're near the end, Potter. Don't hurry it along."

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end but he forced a cool smile, as if nothing Malfoy said could bother him.

"Sure," he said, lazily. "Your Dark Lord will be knocking on the gates any day, will he? Ready to stroll in and blast me away? Why don't you try now, and save him the trouble?"

Malfoy half-smiled. "You want me to try? You're a terrible dueller, Potter. You know one move and, without it, you're dead. I could take you down."

"Go on," Harry said, with false bravado. "Give it a shot."

As Malfoy reached for his wand, Harry caught sight of a mark across the back of his hand, a scar like a burn which he could swear hadn't been there that morning.

"What's that?" he asked, impulsively. "On your hand?"

A muscle twitched below Malfoy's eye. "Mind your own business, scarhead. Stir the potion."

Without another word, Malfoy strode out of the dungeon, slamming the door behind him. Harry stared after him, stirring the potion absent-mindedly, wondering how Malfoy had acquired such an injury in the course of the afternoon. Surely not in his Ancient Runes class? But there would be no point in asking him, and little opportunity to now.

Harry kept on stirring for the required amount of time and left when the Ravenclaw girl came in to work on her and Hermione's potion. Harry didn't pay her any attention. His head was full of Malfoy's threats. Any other day and he would have thought them empty machoism, all for show, but today, when his scar had incapacitated him for the first time since Sirius had died…Harry couldn't shake the feeling there was something in it.

More than that had been the look Malfoy had given him, as though he could already see Harry's corpse, as though it was all already over. No, something was definitely being planned against Hogwarts, something that would come to fruition all too soon.

Harry wished Dumbledore was back. He felt lost without him.

Hermione, to nobody's surprise, didn't want to talk about Malfoy's injury.

"I really couldn't care less," she said distractedly, as she read through Harry's most recent essay. "If he's hurt himself, what problem is that of mine?"

"But don't you think it's suspicious?" Harry demanded. "The only class he had that afternoon was Ancient Runes! How do you burn your hand in Ancient Runes?"

"The only thing that's suspicious is how well you know his timetable," Hermione remarked. "Harry. Be sensible. Maybe he spilled something on him at dinner. Maybe he was in a fight with another Slytherin. Maybe he just fell into a candle. Has it occurred to you that not everything is a conspiracy?"

"I think he's a Death Eater."

The words were out of Harry's mouth before he had had time to assess them and the reaction they received was what he would have predicted. Hermione heaved a great sigh and put Harry's essay down, turning to face him.

"Really, Harry?" she said. "Do you? Do you have any reason to suspect that? Do you have any proof?"

"He's a Malfoy," Harry hesitated. "His dad's definitely one. He's been acting weirdly all year. He knows something's going to happen – you should have seen the way he looked! And he flinched like he'd been stung when I looked at his arm. And he only ever wears long sleeves. And…"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted, "you're shaping the evidence to suit your theory. Everybody wears long sleeves. It's winter, and we wear robes. He was only trying to get a reaction with his threats. He's sixteen, Harry. Just sixteen. Why would Voldemort have a kid on his inner circle?"

"Why would we have a sixteen-year-old as our Chosen One?" Harry countered. "But apparently we do."

"Because you've already defeated him once!" Hermione groaned. "Harry! Just because you want him to be doing something suspicious so you can, I don't know, get him into trouble or finally win this ongoing war between you, doesn't mean he actually is. I agree, Malfoy's a git. I'd be quite happy to see him brought down. But he's doing nothing different to usual!"

"Except leaving me alone."

Hermione tipped her head sideways, considering him thoughtfully. "Are you jealous?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Are you jealous?" Hermione repeated. "You're acting like it's personal, the fact that he's not taking every opportunity to ruin your life. You're acting like you're offended. Are you jealous, that you're not getting his attention anymore?"

"What?" Harry cried. "No! It's not jealousy! I just don't trust him."

"Hmm," Hermione pursed her lips. "Whatever you say, Harry."

"I'm not jealous," Harry explained. "I just don't understand why he would hate me for five years and then suddenly start leaving me alone unless he had something more nefarious to be doing."

"Maybe you were never as important in his world as he is in yours?" Hermione smiled slightly. "Maybe he never memorised your timetables and spent hours stalking you with a magical map?"

Harry looked indignant. "I never stalked him! I was spying! He was up to no good!"

"He's never up to any good," Hermione rolled her eyes. "All I'm trying to say is, this is no worse than usual. In fact, this is better. Don't go getting yourself into fights unnecessarily. Just study hard, keep under the radar, and wait for Dumbledore to come back and tell you what he's been doing."

"Do you think he will?" Harry wondered.

"I'm sure he will," Hermione said, briskly. "He can't expect you to defeat Voldemort when you don't know anything, can he? Now, I've made all the corrections I can. Rewrite it, adding these bits in."

Harry glanced through his corrected essay, much decorated in Hermione's favourite red ink.

"Thank you," he told her, sincerely. "This was killing me."

"Well, that's what I'm here for," Hermione sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Getting you two through your homework and stopping you doing anything completely stupid. But seriously, Harry. Leave Malfoy alone. And if you want to talk conspiracy theories, go discuss them with Ron. He seems to have a limitless patience for them."

Harry nodded. "Alright. I'll leave you out of it, if you insist."

"Thank you," Hermione said, firmly. "I do insist. I have better things to do than listen to you longing for a new mystery to solve. How's your potion looking?"

"Not bad, not bad," Harry nodded. "It should be ready in time. How's yours?"

Hermione winced. "Not great. If only that ridiculous girl would stop trying to change the recipe, we might stand a chance. But no, she has to keep imagining new solutions."

"Well, I'm changing the recipe," Harry said, fairly.

"But you're changing it based on someone whose ideas have worked before," Hermione sniffed, "though I still don't approve. Her idea of improvements, however, have so far had a success rate of zero."

"I'm sure you'll manage," Harry consoled her. "You always do."

"I'm not infallible, Harry," Hermione sighed. "This year is our hardest year yet. Maybe I won't pass potions this time round…"

Harry thought that highly unlikely and said so. Ten minutes later, when Hermione was smiling and confident in her abilities again, he made his way up to the dormitory, where most of the others already lay asleep.

Settling back on his bed, Harry did not sleep immediately, however. He turned over in his mind the conversation with Malfoy, trying to figure out how his enemy thought he was going to breach school defences, and how Harry would be able to stop him.


	5. Chapter 5 - Amortentia Fumes

For the rest of the week, Harry kept his suspicions about Malfoy quiet. He told Ron all of his ideas, expecting agreement, but even he seemed to doubt the plausibility of Malfoy being a Death Eater. Harry supposed it was hard to imagine, unless you'd seen the half-crazed look in his eye.

The love potion was brewing well. The consistency had been changing daily and the murk that had so disgusted Ron the first day was now as thin as water and the colour of autumn leaves. It needed regular stirring on a low heat, so Harry and Malfoy alternated times to check on it. Since their one conversation on Monday, they had exchanged nothing more than a few words.

The Half-Blood Prince's adaptations to the recipe seemed to be taking an effect by mid-week. There was something captivating about the incomplete potion, even now when it would have no more effect romantically than a poison would. As the week progressed, it became more and more as desired.

When Harry entered the dungeon late on Thursday night, the scent of the potion already hung in the air. It smelled of all good things, all the happiness he'd ever known. He closed his eyes and breathed it in deeply, smiling to himself.

"Careful, Potter," Malfoy strolled up behind him. "You don't want to go falling in love by accident."

Harry sighed. "Malfoy. What are you here for?"

"To check on our project, of course," Malfoy replied. "To see that nobody's tried to sabotage us since yesterday."

"What are you going to do?" Harry teased. "Sit on guard all night?"

"No," Malfoy countered, "but I'll put protective enchantments around it."

Harry blinked, startled. "You will?"

"Not only do I want to win," Malfoy explained, "I also don't want to die because somebody has screwed with our project. Amortentia is highly volatile, you know. Just like real love."

Harry snorted. "Like you know anything about love."

Malfoy smiled thinly. "Right. Like I know anything about love."

For a moment, they stood in silence staring at their potion as it simmered for a few final hours. A quick stroll around the room had told Harry all he needed to know about the competition. A few potions were looking good, but none had anything on theirs.

"So how's life in the world-saving business, Potter?" Malfoy asked, conversationally. "Any near-death experiences lately? Slayed any dragons? Rescued any captive princesses?"

Harry sighed. "You don't have to talk to me, you know."

"Oh, it makes a change from the usual conversations," Malfoy shrugged. "Much as I like being worshipped, the 'yes, Draco' and 'whatever you say, Draco' does get tiresome after a while. You're so much easier to annoy."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I bet it does. Don't lie, Malfoy. You love every bit of their sucking up to you."

Malfoy grinned. "You look stressed, Potter. Feeling the pressure?"

Harry snarled but said nothing, determined not to rise to it, remembering Hermione's warning about staying under the radar.

"You know where we get the word 'venom' from, Potter?" Malfoy's voice took on a speculative tone. "From Venus."

"What?" Harry turned around, exasperated. "What are you talking about?"

"Venom," Malfoy repeated. "From Venus. You know why? Because almost all known poisons were originally used as love potions. Says a lot about the human condition, don't you think?"

"It does?" Harry replied, in a bored voice. "What does it say? That we're too stupid to know when we're killing people?"

"That love is death," Malfoy said, harshly. "That to love something is to kill it. You know, we couldn't have brewed anything more dangerous in that cauldron than what we have, the closest artificial thing to real devotion."

Harry rolled his eyes, sitting back in a chair and swinging his feet up onto the side of the bench.

"What's got into you?" he asked. "Since when did you go all darkly romantic?"

Malfoy laughed. "Oh, just a bit of etymology for you. There's a reason the use of love potions is illegal, after all."

"Are you telling me you're trying to make small talk?" Harry scoffed.

"Just passing the time," Malfoy shrugged, languidly. "Forgive me for trying to be polite."

"By giving me lectures about how love is death? I'd rather have the silence."

Malfoy's lip curled. "But surely you already knew that, scarhead? After all, look at your own mother."

Harry was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, his fist closing on the collar of Malfoy's shirt, dragging him towards him, his other hand drawing his wind and pressing it to Malfoy's temple.

"Don't you dare talk about my mother!" he spat. "Don't you dare say a word!"

Malfoy sucked in a breath, startled, and Harry suddenly became aware of him in a way he never had before. He'd never seen it, but Malfoy was beautiful, in an ice-prince sort of way: the way his silver hair fell into his face, the elegant sculpting of his features, his thin lips. Harry dragged his eyes away from Malfoy's mouth but found only his eyes: piercing, silver-grey, full of intensity, full of pain, full of things he couldn't even read.

Harry's face felt hot. He was acutely aware of how close they were standing, of every breath Malfoy was taking, of every heartbeat, of the precise set of Malfoy's jaw, of the moistness of his lips, of where Harry's own knuckles brushed against the delicate skin of his throat…

It lasted only a breath or two before Malfoy wrenched himself away as though it were some Herculean effort. Harry felt the feeling disappear, all the heat and embarrassment and sudden revelation. Malfoy gave him a look of pure loathing.

"You're an idiot, Potter," he spat. "Don't you know better than to touch someone when you're breathing in fumes from a love potion?"

Harry cursed himself inwardly. It had been a stupid thing to do. He knew that now. Hadn't he known it all along? The only reason Malfoy and he had been able to speak so civilly was because the fumes were getting to their heads.

"Don't talk about my mother," he said, a little breathlessly. "Don't ever say another word about her."

Malfoy gave him a look of withering scorn. "You think you can order me around? You know nothing, Potter. You don't even know the beginning of what's going to happen to you."

"What's going to happen to me?" Harry yelled. "What? Nothing, that's what! You're powerless! You can't do anything to me and you know it! Malfoy! You can't do anything! You don't know anything! You're useless!"

In a heartbeat, Malfoy was in front of him again, pressing against him, so close that there could be no space between them. Harry's stomach swooped. His heart thundered in his chest. He tried to remind himself that it was only the love potion but he couldn't think. He could only stare at Malfoy's face, a hair's breadth from his own, gaze into the eyes that mocked him. Malfoy reached up and brushed his thumb across Harry's lips. Harry shivered.

"I know," Malfoy whispered, "how to resist a love potion."

He shoved Harry back roughly and Harry stumbled, catching himself on the side of the workbench. His cheeks flamed crimson with embarrassment, his heart racing now with fury rather than infatuation.

"Don't try," Malfoy smirked. "You've never bothered to learn anything about potions. You won't be able to overcome the Amortentia fumes, and while watching you go weak at the knees at the sight of me has its own amusements, the consequences could be undesirable."

"You bastard," Harry hissed. "How dare you? How dare you!"

"Oh, get over yourself, Potter," Malfoy waved a hand, dismissively. "The effects are already gone. I'm not afraid of you. Go crying back to your nice little Gryffindor friends. Cuddle up by the fireside with a hot chocolate and tell each other ghost stories. I'm sure you're missing some worthy activity by hanging about down here. Anyone would think you wanted to spend time with me."

"I'm came down to check on the potion!" Harry snapped, his face still burning with humiliation. "I don't want to spend another second in your presence! I loathe you! Everybody does! You think you're such a big deal, Malfoy, but you're not! You're nothing! And one day you'll be rotting in Azkaban with your good-for-nothing father, listening to the dementors, and nobody! In the entire world! Will care!"

For a moment, Malfoy looked stunned. Harry didn't wait for a response. He turned and stormed out of the dungeon, leaving his enemy behind to hover over the potion. With any luck, as of tomorrow, this whole teamwork idea would be finished, and Harry could work on persuading Slughorn to let him move desks. He never wanted to see Malfoy's smug face again.

Draco sat alone in the dungeon, waiting for the Amortentia to be finished. There was little else to do with his time and, now Potter was gone and there was no one to torment, he occupied himself with the thoughts that had been distracting him since the start of term.

Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers along the healing burn across his hand. That had been a mistake, an action taken far too rashly. It was time to stop experimenting and focus all of his efforts onto his grand plan. There was no quick and easy way to go about this. The long, slow route would have to suffice.

Glancing around to check once more that he was alone, Draco slid his sleeve back and gazed at the delicate skin of his forearm. There, just below the stark, blue veins of his wrist, the dark mark burned black against his white skin, so unreal, part of another universe. He ran his fingertips around the edge of it, careful not to touch it, careful not to accidentally send a sign.

It had been more painful than anything he could have imagined to have it branded into him. The effect, not just on his skin but on his mind, had been shocking. It wasn't the mark on his arm that bothered him. It was the other mark, the one he felt deep inside of him, the replica made on his soul.

The dark mark didn't wash out, could never be washed out. It was a sin to even have it placed upon you, whatever you then did to redeem yourself.

Draco didn't believe in a heaven or a hell – he couldn't conceive a universe that would be so cruel as to keep you living even after you died. No, when you ended, you got oblivion. Blissful, empty oblivion, for the rest of eternity. Nothingness. No world. No thoughts. No you. But had he believed, he would have known himself to be damned. He knew it anyway. He felt it, a stain upon him, a filth he couldn't wash off.

But it would be worth it. It would be worth it to serve the Dark Lord, to serve someone who he had spent his childhood revering, where other children had been taught to fear. It would be worth it to earn his favour. It would be worth it to restore the family honour.

It would be worth any price, any cost, any pain, any fear. Draco was convinced of that. And even if he wasn't, he was entirely without a choice.

Draco took the Amortentia off the heat and doused the fire. The liquid stopped bubbling and took on the smooth sheen required. Experimentally, Draco breathed in deep and let the fumes fill his lungs. Pine. Wood smoke. Something akin to, but not quite the same as, nail polish. Scents that filled him up with well-being, with comfort and safety and home.

Draco opened his eyes and smiled. He could do this. With or without the liquid luck. With or without help. With or without anybody. He was strong enough to fulfil the Dark Lord's wishes. He would succeed, where everyone else had failed.

As he began to cast the protective enchantments, Potter's outburst came back to him. The muscles in Draco's shoulders tightened. Potter was wrong. There were people in the world who cared what happened to him, just not people that Potter would even think of as being real, as being alive: Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, his mother, perhaps even his father. No, Potter would never count them into his considerations. But they were real, too. They cared.

"Just you wait, Potter," Draco whispered, as he completed the final enchantment. "Just you wait. Sooner or later, I'll be the only one that matters. Sooner or later, you'll be the one rotting. You'll be the one forgotten."

Turning his back on the well-protected cauldron, Draco set off up the stairs from the dungeon, in the direction of the Room of Requirement.


	6. Chapter 6 - Partnership Terminated

It took some time for Harry to calm down completely from his rage. These days, he could usually brush off Malfoy's hurtful comments and cruel remarks but that gesture had gone beyond the usual realms of their rivalry. Harry still flushed with humiliation to think about it.

 _Only a potion, only a potion,_ he chanted to himself, trying to steady his thoughts. And of course it was. He knew that and Malfoy knew that. But even so, there he'd been, with Malfoy pressed up against him, unable to catch his breath, unable to tear his gaze away.

"It's only a potion," he said, aloud.

"What?" Ron looked up from his homework, frowning.

"Oh, nothing," Harry said, quickly. "Malfoy just pissed me off today. He's getting too worked up about our potions assignment."

"I wish Zabini would get even a little worked up," Ron said, gloomily. "All he does is smooth his hair and say 'you can sort it, can't you, weasel-brain?'. Well, no, I can't. Slughorn's going to be furious tomorrow."

"Slughorn doesn't know how to be furious," Harry dismissed his worries. "He'll just look disappointed and move on."

"Yeah, well," Ron sunk lower into depression. "There's only so many disappointed looks you can take before it gets personal, you know? How's Hermione's coming along?"

"Not bad," Harry nodded. "I think she's got her partner sorted out. I'm not sure what she was trying to make but it doesn't look so terrible."

"Did you see mine?" Ron asked. "That's the very definition of terrible."

Harry had to agree. He had taken a look at the congealed green mess inside Ron's cauldron and decided that, while it might be good as a Halloween decoration, feeding it to someone would not be a wise move, even if you could pry it from the metal where it had caked itself.

"You'll be fine," Harry lied. "Maybe all the love-fumes in the room will make Slughorn treat everyone softly."

Ron carried on muttering to himself until Harry decided it was too late in the night to continue working. He couldn't focus, and he needed sleep. Facing Malfoy again tomorrow was going to be one of the hardest things he'd ever done, and he wasn't even sure why.

How was it that he, Harry Potter, who had faced down Lord Voldemort countless times, who had watched him rise, who had fought him aged eleven, who had stabbed a basilisk, who had navigated the Department of Mysteries, who had done all of these incredible, world-saving things, how was it that he could be so afraid of facing a small-minded Slytherin who had managed to humiliate him?

It was one of the great injustices of the world that bravery in the face of certain death was so much easier to come by than bravery in the face of excruciating embarrassment.

Harry slept uneasily, wrapped up in dreams like ribbons, intertwining, none of them making sense, full of distant laughter and fragmented images, a mess of impression, a nest of all his fears rising up at night to haunt him.

The morning saw the sixth-year potions class early to their lesson, all of them anxious, desperate to see how they had fared in Slughorn's challenge. The rotund professor seemed particularly good-spirited that day, full of smiles and winks for everyone.

"Well, well," he said, happily. "Let's see how everyone's done, shall we? Who has managed to brew a concoction of exquisite adoration, and who has created a worthless poison? I shall see! I shall judge! Prizes, of course, to the winners!"

The door to the dungeon was thrown open and the students hurried forward in the wake of Professor Slughorn, rushing to their desks to check that nothing had become worse since the final check the night before. Harry was amongst them, hastily scurrying to where the Amortentia was giving out its intoxicating scents.

Malfoy was already leaning against the workbench, the picture of ease. He turned to give Harry a knowing wink, to which Harry responded with a furious glare. On the desk between them, the Amortentia glistened like a miracle, captured and distilled and concentrated into liquid.

The surface shimmered in the subtle colours of mother-of-pearl, just as the textbook had prescribed. With every imperceptible movement, the play of hues shifted slightly to give a whole new perspective to the condensed rainbow. The steam rising from the surface spiralled lazily, twisting up as though it had all the time in the world. It was mesmerising to look at. Harry was sure he could have stood there for hours, breathing it in, staring.

He was not the only one. People kept casting glances back to their table, inhaling, unable to resist the scents that were reaching right down into the bedrock of their soul. Only Malfoy seemed completely immune, and Harry wondered what his secret was. How did he resist intoxication?

Slughorn made his tour of the room slowly, examining each potion in detail, commenting on the results and the intentions behind it. Several times, he made a play of almost going to taste the potion before remembering himself and refusing. Harry wished he would just get on with it. The desire to get out of the room was crushing him. He refused to even glance in Malfoy's direction. He knew he would regret it.

"An excellent result," Slughorn was saying, stirring Hermione's potion. "Yes, this would induce a fanciful infatuation. Very well done. A definite contender here."

Though Hermione flushed with pride, anyone in the room would have been hard-pressed to believe Slughorn there. They could all smell the Amortentia, and they all knew that the potion over on Harry's desk was seducing them without their even tasting it.

"Ah!" Slughorn closed his eyes and inhaled theatrically as he approached their desk. "Ah! Amortentia!"

He stepped past Harry and Malfoy to stare in at the contents, stirring it round, marvelling. As Slughorn lost himself in the power of the potion, Harry found that he was seeing Malfoy's face again. Their gazes locked, past Slughorn, staring into one another's eyes.

Harry felt that strange feeling creeping up on him again, the fumes getting to his brain and befuddling him. He remembered yesterday and knew his cheeks were turning pink. Malfoy kept staring, the corner of his mouth curving up into a smile, one eyebrow half-lifted. Harry knew, on a subliminal level, that Malfoy wasn't feeling any of the effects. He also knew that it made no difference; he couldn't look away.

Slughorn broke the spell by stepping back into their line of vision. Harry blinked hastily, pushing everything that had just run through his mind to the back of his brain. He didn't need to think about it. He didn't need this potion messing with his head.

"Amortentia," Slughorn said again, grandly. "Well, well. An ambitious pair here, aren't you? The most powerful and dangerous love potion in the world. No mean feat to make, and you two have done exceptionally well. I think everyone can agree we have a clear winner here!"

Harry was in no way surprised, but very much relieved. He waited impatiently for Slughorn to return to the front of the class and give the order for them to vanish their potions.

"And make sure you do," he added, winking. "The use of love potions is highly illegal, and will be punished most severely, so don't think about taking any for yourselves!"

Harry didn't hesitate. He whipped out his wand and vanished the potion in one movement, so desperate to do so that he didn't even need the verbal incantation. Away went the coiling smoke, the seductive smells, the intoxicating fumes. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

"Feeling tense, Potter?" Malfoy leant close to him. "A little uncomfortable?"

"Piss off, Malfoy," Harry turned around. "The project is over. We never have to see one another again."

"Oh, rejection," Malfoy showed his teeth when he smiled, wolf-like. "You weren't so standoffish a minute ago."

"Get over yourself," Harry said, disgustedly. "Just because the potion doesn't mess with your brain like it does everyone else's. It's probably because you don't have the capacity to feel real emotion."

Malfoy laughed aloud. "It's because I took the antidote before coming near it, dimwit. You think I was going to risk having my emotions screwed with by my own potion?"

Harry didn't know why the idea of taking the antidote had not occurred to him, but he wasn't going to let Malfoy know that.

"You keep stocks of love potion antidote made up?" he mocked. "God, do you really expect that much attention?"

"Whatever, Potter," Malfoy flipped him the middle finger. "If you'd done any research rather than relying on your friend, the Prince, you'd know that the antidote is far easier to make than the potion. Convenient, really, or I'd have been just as conspicuously vulnerable as you are."

"Everyone in the room was under the spell of our potion," Harry snapped. "You think I'm any weaker than the rest of them?"

"Oh, much," Malfoy nodded, "but not because of that. No, the key to your weakness will be revealed in time…"

Before their conversation could go any further, Slughorn strode over to them.

"And the prizes!" he announced. "For our two talented potioneers, both with fine potions careers ahead of them, I'm sure, two giant bars of Honeyduke's best!"

As Harry took the proffered chocolate, he cast a sideways look at Malfoy, whose face was transfigured by some emotion that Harry couldn't quite read, a mixture of disappointment and rage. Slughorn didn't appear to notice, or perhaps ignored it, clapping them both on the back and moving on.

"What's the matter?" Harry asked, snidely. "Hoping it was going to be more luck potion?"

The brief flicker of fury across Malfoy's face told him he'd hit the nail on the head. Harry smiled.

"What do you want luck potion for, Malfoy?" he asked. "Is this something to do with your oh-so-grand plan to have me killed?"  
"I told you, Potter," Malfoy answered, his tone colder and more distant than it had been all year, "to keep your nose out of other people's business. We'll all be better off that way."

"Come on, Malfoy," Harry pressed, pleased to have got a reaction. "Tell me. What's the big plan? Were you going to down some liquid luck and challenge me to a duel? Or was there some big purpose where you brought your lord and master into the school, like a good little slave, to kill us all?"

Malfoy spun around, his wand coming to a rest inches from Harry's face.

"I told you," he said, through gritted teeth, "to back off. Keep out of my life, Potter. Do you understand?"

Harry didn't reply. Malfoy stuffed his wand back into his pocket, turned and strode out of the dungeons, leaving Harry staring after him.

"Well, that's definitely suspicious!" Ron enthused, over lunch. "If Malfoy wants that Felix potion so badly…"

"Oh, come on, Ron," Hermione moaned. "Everybody wanted that potion so badly! Who wouldn't want something that would make them lucky?"

"Yeah, but he really wanted it," Ron waved his laden fork to emphasise the point. "I mean, Harry said he looked downright homicidal when he didn't get any."

"It's Malfoy," Hermione said, patiently. "We all know he's not big on anger management. Why are you both so desperate to find something wrong?"

"Because I'd love to see Malfoy take a fall," Ron said, honestly. "I mean, wouldn't you? All those times he's laughed at you and called you a mudblood and made fun of you for your hair and your teeth and stuff – not that there's anything wrong with your hair," he added, hastily. "But you know what I mean! He's a moral-less git! Who wouldn't want to see him come to grief? Isn't that right, Harry?"

"Right," Harry said, vengefully. "I want to see him rot in Azkaban for the rest of eternity. No, I'd even want to see him suffer the Dementor's Kiss."

"Harry!" Hermione squealed, jumping in surprise. "You shouldn't wish that on anyone! Even your worst enemy which, may I point out, Malfoy is not!"

"I mean it," Harry growled. "I hate him!"

"Ok, ok, calm down, mate," Ron looked alarmed. "We all hate Malfoy. But there's no way we're getting dementors into the castle, even if they can suck his face off."

"Oh, really, Ron, Harry wasn't serious;" Hermione gave Harry a desperate look, "were you?"

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. "Nah, not really. It's too nasty, even for him."

But, deep inside, he thought differently.

"Well," Hermione brushed back her hair, "I'm glad that's over. Now I can get back to making my own potions, without bothering about that pigeon-brain. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, sure," Ron said, with his mouth full. "I'll enjoy failing with my own work so much more than with a joint effort."

"I'll be glad," Harry said, vehemently. "I'll be very glad to never see Malfoy's ferrety face again. I'm going to go to Slughorn this evening and ask him if I can move desks. We've tried inter-house cooperation and it's failed."

"Good idea," Ron nodded, authoritatively. "You do that, and put in a good word for me as well. I've been thinking about ways to blow Zabini's cauldron up in his face but I don't think my mother would be pleased if I turned to assassination."

"You know, he is right," Hermione said, reluctantly. "I mean, we should really be trying to get along with other houses."

"Hermione!" Ron pointed an accusing finger. "Turncoat! You weren't saying that when he first suggested it!"

"Well, no," Hermione sighed. "I don't like it any more than you do. But with a war coming up, we should present a united front…"

"I refuse to unite with Slytherins," Ron said, flatly. "End of story."

"Ron!" Hermione hit the table with the palm of her hand. "That's what I'm talking about! We need to get over all this house prejudice if we're going to fight Voldemort! He'll tear us apart from within! What, you think just Gryffindor House can stand against him?"

"I bet we could," Ron considered. "If we took everyone who ever used to be in Gryffindor too. I bet we'd be strong enough."

"Oh, really!" Hermione huffed. "You're both so small-minded. Can't you see past your own prejudice?"

"I'm not prejudiced against Slytherins," Harry objected. "It's just that the number of times they've tried to have me killed in the past has rather put a damper on our relationship."

"Don't give me that," Hermione snapped. "If you saw a…a Slytherin first-year, just an eleven-year-old, get knocked down in the hallway, would you do anything? No, you'd probably laugh. But if it was a Gryffindor first-year, you'd be up defending them in an instant!"

"I might not," Ron said, fairly. "Some of those first-years are a real pain."

"You're missing the point," Hermione replied. "The point is that the both of you have got it into your thick skulls that Slytherins are all evil and you're wrong."

"Oh yeah?" Ron challenged. "Do you know any Slytherins, Hermione? Do you?"

"Well, at least I try," Hermione retorted. "How do you expect to defeat Voldemort if you can't even cooperate with your own side?"

"Hermione, just drop it," Harry said, tiredly. "If you want us to go around hugging Slytherins and being best buddies with Malfoy, you're fighting a losing battle."

"I don't want anyone to be _buddies_ ," Hermione answered, scathingly. "I just think you might try and appreciate that they're people too, people on your side, and most of them have never done anything to harm you."

"Just wait till they grow up, 'mione," Ron said, in an ominous tone. "Wait till they're big and strong Death Eaters. Then see how cute and cuddly those eleven-year-olds are."

"This," Hermione growled, "is exactly why the Sorting is at fault! We take little kids and we tell them who they're going to be, and we tell a quarter of them that they're going to turn out evil! Then everybody proceeds to hate one another for the next seven years and we wonder why we have conflicts."

"I don't wonder," Harry said, darkly. "I know."


	7. Chapter 7 - A Refusal and A Nightmare

Slughorn's office was every bit as spacious and comfortable as Harry had anticipated. He couldn't imagine the professor settling for anything less than the most opulent luxury he could acquire. The flickering firelight glowed out warmly into the chill corridor as Harry hovered uncertainly in the open doorway, not sure whether you were supposed to knock on an open door.

Fortunately, he was saved from this predicament when Slughorn spotted him.

"Harry, my boy!" he boomed. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Harry stepped cautiously inside. "I just had something to ask you, professor."

"Anything, anything!" Slughorn gestured. "Do take a seat. A drink?"

"Please."

Slughorn poured Harry a generous helping of butterbeer, and a far more generous one for himself.

"So," the professor settled back, "what can I do for you?"

"Well," Harry took a deep breath, "I was wondering if I could move seats in potions."

Slughorn looked surprised. "But why?"

"It's Malfoy, sir," Harry said, in a rush. "I can't work with him. I just can't. Please, couldn't I work somewhere else? I could swap with Zabini! Everyone would be happy with that."

"Now, now, Harry," Slughorn waggled a thick finger at him, "I can't go letting you move around and not anyone else, can I? Can't have people accusing me of favouritism."

"Then let everyone move," Harry tried. "We've all had a go at inter-house cooperation. Now let's go back to normal!"

Slughorn laughed. "Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry. That's not the spirit at all! I'm sure Mr Malfoy can't be all that bad."

"Yes," Harry said, viciously. "Yes, he can."

Slughorn wasn't listening. "No, the two of you work very well together. The love potion you produced was truly exemplary. You've clearly got a gift."

"Sir…"

"Think about it, Harry," Slughorn gave a grandiose gesture. "You and Mr Malfoy worked together to produce a concoction of love! Doesn't that say something? You can work with Slytherins! The prejudice against my old house has gone on too long, no offence to you Gryffindors, of course."

"Sir, please," Harry begged. "I can't work with him. He hates me."

"You know," Slughorn mused, "that's exactly what Malfoy said when he came in here to ask the exact same thing."

Harry blinked. "Malfoy was asking to switch seats?"

"Mmmhmm," Slughorn nodded. "Only an hour or so before you arrived. He said he couldn't stand to work with you a second longer."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, now you see! We can't work together! I'm not making it up! Please, sir, just let us move."

Slughorn sighed. "Harry, whatever is going on between you and Mr Malfoy, there's nothing I can or will do about it. I give you the same response I gave him: try. Get to know one another. Find something in common. You're too old to hate each other for no reason."

"It's not," Harry snarled, "for no reason!"

"My word is final, Harry," Slughorn announced. "You'll be staying where I put you until the end of the year. It's clearly not affecting your potions ability, after all."

Harry closed his eyes. "Please."

"No," Slughorn said, firmly. "I will not be swayed. Now, drink your butterbeer and let's have a chat. How are things with you?"

It was an hour before Harry could escape, making his excuses about overdue homework.

"Of course, of course," Slughorn agreed. "I can't be keeping you from your schoolwork. Oh, but Harry, I'm planning a little Christmas get-together before the end of term. Let me know the dates you're free, won't you? You've missed so many of our little dinners. I'd hate for you to miss this."

Harry's heart sank into his boots. He'd try and find some excuse but he knew it was a losing battle. Slughorn was committed to his attendance. He'd have to be there, and make the best of it he could.

All the walk back to Gryffindor Tower, Harry dwelt upon the fact that Malfoy had also gone with the same request. He hadn't realised he had had such an impact upon his enemy's lessons. He'd assumed, judging from Malfoy's unruffled countenance that morning, that he was the one who was suffering the most.

The idea that he'd driven Malfoy to distraction as well was curiously satisfying.

"Hard luck," Ron said, when Harry told him the news. "At least you tried."

"Yeah," Harry lay back on his bed. "And got an earful of Slughorn's pandering and name-dropping for the effort."

"Who'll you take to the Christmas party?" Ron asked, gloomily.

Harry knew Ron hated being left out, but he didn't know what to do about. He could hardly ask him to go to the party together, though the idea of seeing Slughorn's expression gave the thought a certain appeal.

"Dunno," he replied. "I don't suppose there is anybody to take."

"Sure there is," Ron grumbled. "Every girl in Gryffindor will be begging you to take them as soon as they find out. You could have anyone you wanted."

"Yeah, well," Harry snorted. "I don't want some random third-year hanging off my arm all evening."

"It wouldn't have to be a third-year!" Ron said, indignant at Harry not taking this matter seriously. "You could have anyone. That fourth-year with the eyelashes? What's her name? She's pretty."

"Romilda Vane?" Harry shook his head. "Hermione says not to touch her with a barge-pole. I'll trust her judgement."

Ron sighed heavily. "I suppose you could always take Hermione."

"She's already going though, isn't she? Otherwise I could take Hermione or Ginny and it would be just fine."

"Hey," Ron said, jokingly. "Hands off my sister!"

"Ha. As friends," Harry clarified. "She's dating Dean anyway."

"Oh yes," Ron sunk back down into depression. "So she is."

They lay in silence for a while, staring up at the ceiling. Neville came banging into the dormitory to fetch something, shouted an apology and left again.

"Harry?" Ron spoke up at last. "Do you think Hermione's pretty?"

Harry had never thought about it before. "I suppose so. Why?"

"No reason," Ron sighed and rolled onto his side, facing away. "No reason at all."

Harry wondered, unexpectedly, whether Ron could be harbouring feelings for their best friend. But no, that was impossible. Wasn't it? How many times had they fought and sworn never to speak again? He must be misreading the situation.

His mind, as it often did, drifted back to Malfoy. He didn't want to see him again but, with any luck, they would now go back to the secure old way of pretending each other didn't exist. Harry couldn't imagine why he'd ever complained about that. It was the far better way to be.

Harry was walking through the darkness, walking but going nowhere, not moving, trapped. From the nothingness, something was rising, something like a cold wind on the back of his neck, raising his hairs, making his skin prickle. He had to get away.

He was running now, running desperately, frantically, arms pumping, breath choking from his lungs, muscles burning, but he was going nowhere, nowhere, nowhere. There was nowhere to go. There was only the emptiness, consuming him, and that thing, that darkness darker than the surroundings, that blackness that was a shadow in a land with no light, closing in on him, coming nearer, waiting, ready.

Harry tried to reach for his wand but it wasn't there. He had no hands to reach with. He had no wand to find. He was dissolving, evaporating, becoming as insubstantial as the world around him. The shadow was there, breathing down his neck, close enough to touch, getting nearer, nearer, nearer.

It blew past in a wind that scorched him, that froze him like ice, that bowled him off his feet, and in his ears he heard the wild, high-pitched laughter, echoing on the gale, reverberating in a land without sound. And Harry was falling, falling, falling.

He didn't hit the ground. There was no ground to hit. There was only the empty space and himself, his disappearing self, fading away, vanishing, separating out and becoming at one with the nothingness. He had no mouth to scream. There were no ears to hear. There were no minds to remember him. He was the last thing in the emptiness.

Now he was gone, gone, gone, and there was only the laughter in his mind before it all passed away.

"Harry! Harry!"

Harry jerked awake, eyes snapping open. Ron was standing over him, shaking him. Everyone in the dormitory was on their feet, gathered around his bed, gazing at him in fear.

"Why? What is it?" Harry looked from one to the other. "What's going on?"

"You were screaming, mate," Ron sounded frightened. "No words. Just screaming."

"It was…it was only a dream," Harry tried to steady his heart. "A nightmare. It was nothing."

He was clammy with cold sweat and he could still feel the fear pumping through him, burning. The laughter hadn't left his ears. It felt as though the dream was still happening, as though this was the unreality.

"Was it Voldemort?" Neville asked, in hushed tones. "Was he talking to you?"

"No! No," Harry forced himself to sit up. "Just a regular old nightmare. No big deal."

"No big deal," Seamus echoed, disbelievingly. "When is it ever no big deal with you?"

"Honestly," Harry lied. "Just a dream. No visions, no secret messages. Just a dream."

He could see in their faces that they didn't believe a word he was saying but he wasn't going to pay any attention to that. The last thing he wanted to talk about was the dream he'd had. After all the nightmares of last year, all the snapshots into Voldemort's life, somehow this seemed worse.

The other boys kept shooting him looks as they dressed and made their way down to the Great Hall but Harry ignored them. If he didn't want to talk, he wasn't going to. They couldn't make him, not now.

He must have still looked pale when they sat down for breakfast because Hermione immediately narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips in a way that meant trouble.

"Harry," she hissed, "what happened?"

"Nightmare," Harry mumbled. "Nothing important."

"Screaming," Ron added. "Screaming bloody murder in his sleep. Woke us all up."

Hermione flinched. "Was it…Voldemort?"

"He says not," Ron made a face.

Hermione gave a derisive snort, making it clear exactly what she thought of that story.

"Hey!" Harry protested. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because it's always Voldemort," Hermione returned. "Always. So, now, please, will you go to Dumbledore and talk to him about your scar? And this dream of yours."

"I can't, Hermione," Harry snapped. "He's away somewhere and nobody knows what he's doing."

"He's not away," Hermione pointed up to the staff table triumphantly. "He's back."

And sure enough, there, in his customary place, sat Albus Dumbledore.


	8. Chapter 8 - Ill-Served Detention

Harry had intended to go and talk to Dumbledore that morning, just as Hermione had ordered, but somehow he never got round to it. The day passed, then another, then another. Life went on as usual and there was no meeting with the headmaster.

In Potions, Malfoy returned to his old act of stony silence, as if Harry didn't even exist. It was better that way. It was easier to work knowing that Malfoy wasn't watching him, judging him, about to make some snide comment or suggestion. And if the lessons without it were, for want of a better word, dull then what was wrong with that? It was school, after all. Nobody was expecting excitement.

Christmas was drawing rapidly nearer and, with it, Slughorn's party. Harry's dread of that event had increased a hundred-fold, especially when the decorations were put up around Hogwarts. How was it possible for so many girls to exist in one school? Weren't they supposed to be only half the population? And what kind of educational institution thought it was a good idea to hang mistletoe from the ceiling? How was that supposed to improve the scholarly atmosphere?

Harry was well aware that he was being more than a little irrational on that account, but he didn't care. At least Ron seemed too preoccupied to tease him about it. Actually, Harry had no idea what was going on with Ron at the moment. He could ask, but he honestly wasn't sure how much he cared. His best friend was allowed to have a life of his own, after all.

 _Perhaps_ , Harry concluded, with a heavy sigh, _it would be better to go solo to this ridiculous party. There was no shame in that, was there?_

Of course, while technically it might lack shame, the fact that the entire school would notice that he refused to pick a girl to take was likely to have negative consequences. The last thing he needed was more rumours spreading about him. It was as though the world thought it could know everything about him, just by analysing one word he said. It wasn't fair.

Harry was so deeply lost in these thoughts that he walked right into somebody without even noticing and sent all of their books clattering to the floor.

"I'm sorry!" he apologised, coming down from his cloud back to the real world. "I'm so sorry! Oh…Luna."

Luna Lovegood, charmingly bizarre and whimsically romantic as ever, gave him a dreamy smile in return.

"It's quite alright," she knelt down, gathering her books up again. "What were you thinking about? You looked like you were in another world."

"Uh…yeah," Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I guess I was."

Luna straightened up, smiling brightly. "How are you this year? It's been so long since I've seen you."

Harry tried to ignore the stirring guilt in his stomach. "Um, yeah, sorry about that. I've been…kind of busy. Homework and all."

Luna nodded. "Me too. But I miss last year, don't you? It was nice having friends."

That was both the best and the worst thing about Luna. She said exactly what she thought, all the things that other people would usually keep to themselves. She was so devastatingly honest that she made everyone she spoke to uncomfortable. She took some getting used to, but Harry rather liked her.

"I miss it too," Harry agreed. "Surely you still have friends? The other DA members must still talk to you."

"Mmm, sometimes," Luna considered. "Ginny's still nice to me. Most of the others have friends of their own, you know?"

Harry felt the warning lights flashing in his brain, pointing out that what he was about to do was impulse and irrational and something he was probably going to regret. He ignored them, and ploughed ahead regardless.

"Hey, Luna? Do you want to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with me?"

It was worth any amount of regret to see the way her face lit up. The advantage of Luna's disarming honesty: you always knew when you'd brightened her day.

"Ooo, really, Harry?" she beamed. "I'd love to!"

"Right," Harry shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Well then. I'll meet you in the entrance hall on that evening, okay?"

Luna nodded eagerly. "I'll be there! I've never been asked to a party before…"

"Just as friends," Harry added hastily. "Not as…you know."

"I know," Luna said, seriously. "Friends is more than enough."

It was no surprise to Harry that news of this conversation spread around the school like wildfire. The crowds of whispering, giggling girls still whispered but their coy smiles had been replaced by looks of extreme suspicion. Nobody seemed to think the Chosen One had any right going anywhere with Ravenclaw's strangest student.

"You could have chosen anyone," Ron gestured, "anyone! And you chose Loony Lovegood."

"Don't call her that," Hermione reproached him. "I think it's a good choice. Harry doesn't want some love-struck fourth-year hanging off his arm all evening, does he?"

"Right," Harry muttered.

In truth, he wished he hadn't asked her but he wasn't going to take it back now. He hid behind Ron as best he could as they waited outside their Transfiguration classroom, avoiding the stares of his classmates. It had all happened before, but he would still rather pretend not to see.

"Potter!"

The oh-so-familiar tones reverberated down the corridor, brimming over with an arrogance and glee that had been missing from them for so long. Harry turned reluctantly to see Malfoy marching towards him, flanked by his usual cronies.

"My congratulations, Potter," Malfoy said, smoothly. "I hear you've got a girlfriend. Did you have to enchant her, or is she merely desperate?"

There was a note of triumph in Malfoy's voice, a look of happiness in his eyes that made Harry uneasy. What had happened to the silent, grey-faced boy of the past few months? Where had Malfoy's old confidence returned from?

"Stay out of it, Malfoy," he said, in as bored a tone as he could muster. "It's nothing to do with you."

"Loony Lovegood," Malfoy said, with great satisfaction. "The perfect pairing. The delusional wannabee-hero and the lonely freak. Cute couple, don't you think?"

"Don't insult Luna," Hermione cut in, indignantly. "Really, Malfoy, don't you have anything better to do?"

"Stay out of this, Mudblood," Malfoy made a dismissive gesture in her direction, without taking his eyes off Harry. "Unless you've got a death wish."

"Take it back, Malfoy!" Harry reached for his wand, relieved to at last have an excuse to strike back. "Take it back!"

"Or what?" Malfoy twirled his own wand between his fingers. "So why Loony, Potter? And there was me thinking…you didn't swing that way. Or are you in denial?"

"Expelliarmus!"

Malfoy blocked the spell effortlessly. "Have you gotten over me so quickly? Oh!" he gave a sigh of mock-pain. "My heart! It breaks!"

"Stupefy!" Harry roared, his vision searing red. "Stupefy!"

"Baubillious!"

"Rictusempra!"

"Slugulus Eructo!"

"Malfoy! Potter! Stop that at once!"

The furious tones of Professor McGonagall cut through the corridor, rapidly clearing a way before her to where the two boys stood shaking, glaring at one another in abject loathing.

"And just what," she began, in dangerous tones, "do you think you are doing?"

"Malfoy started it! He–,"

"Mr Weasley," McGonagall interrupted, "nobody asked for your opinion. Well, boys? What do you have to say for yourselves?"

Harry lowered his wand slowly, unsure of how to proceed. Across from him, Malfoy remained unmoved, eyes fixed on Harry's face, black with hatred.

"I see," McGonagall's tone was pure ice. "If the both of you would care to come with me?"

And so it was that Harry found himself standing beside Malfoy before the desk in McGonagall's office, just as he had so many times in his younger years, and feeling still hot with fury.

"It's been a long time since I've had to haul you both in here," McGonagall remarked. "I can see your shield charms have improved since then. Oh my, how I am proud."

Harry resisted the temptation to shuffle his feet and look at the floor. Something about his house-mistress always reduced him to the level of the incompetent eleven-year-old he had once been. She knew how to find just the tone of voice to render him a pouting child.

"I won't have either of you in my lesson today," she continued. "Frankly, I cannot stand it. You can stay here, and you can stay here after the lesson, and you can stay here through dinner, and you can stay here through the evening as well!"

"But Professor," Malfoy looked up quickly, "if some of us have other commitments…"

"You should have thought of that before attacking another student outside my classroom," McGonagall cut him off. "I'm sick to death of the pair of you."

With a flick of her wand, she conjured up two Victorian-style desks with a heap of papers on each.

"You have your quills, I suppose?" she asked, tartly. "I would trust you have come to school for something other than petty fights."

"Yes, Professor," they mumbled, knowing the value of compliance in these situations.

"Good!" she snapped. "Then sit here, in silence, and right me out a letter of reflection, one on every sheet of this paper on your desk! Understood?"

"What?" Harry cried. "That's not fair! Why can't we have a normal punishment?"

"If you're going to behave like brawling Muggles rather than dignified wizards," McGonagall said, with superb disdain, "you shall be reduced to Muggle punishments. Get started!"

"But…" Malfoy began to protest.

"Does it look like we're having a discussion, Mr Malfoy?" McGonagall's nostrils flared impressively. "I thought not. To work, the pair of you!"

Grudgingly, Harry threw himself down onto one of the chairs, digging his quill and ink pot out of his bag. The stack of papers was huge. Perhaps if he wrote in large letters, one letter of reflection would only need to be a few sentences long…

McGonagall was still standing over them five minutes later. Harry's quill lay untouched beside the first blank sheet. He wasn't sure where to begin. What was he supposed to say? If the point was to transcribe his flaws, where was he supposed to begin?

"Neither of you has anything to write?" McGonagall glared. "You don't know why you're always fighting?"

"I don't see why both of us are present here, Professor," Malfoy drawled, his eyes on Harry. "Only one of us is so ill-bred that they don't know how to behave. I suppose it comes of being dragged up from the gutter by Muggles."

"You see, Professor?" Harry cast McGonagall beseeching eyes. "How can I help myself if he's going to talk like that?"

"Neither of you think you've done anything wrong?" McGonagall's tongue clicked against her teeth as she spoke. "Fine. Write about what the other has done wrong. I'll be back once the lesson is over."

She stormed out of the room and the door closed behind her with a slam. Harry sat back in his chair, rubbing his quill idly between his thumb and forefinger, pondering the task ahead of him. How to pin it all down on paper? How to write it out in one short letter? Everything that Malfoy had done wrong…every reason he had to hate him…

Harry remembered the pale-faced boy in the robe shop all those years ago, loftily talking about how great Hogwarts was going to be and how much he knew. It seemed different in his memory than it had at the time, less the judgemental musings of a pure-blood and more the idle prattle of a boy about to go to school for the first time.

He remembered, with a strange stab of remorse, standing in front of Malfoy as he extended one thin hand and offered to be friends. Oh yes, he'd offered it with a scathing glance in Ron's direction but why had Harry refused? Only because Ron had already taught him that Slytherins – and Malfoys – were scum. He had rejected friendship then. He wondered, suddenly, whether Malfoy had meant it, whether he had genuinely been offering an olive branch. Surely not? And yet…

Harry's mind idled over other memories, of scathing remarks and corridor duels. He had instigated them as often as he had defended himself. That seemed less justifiable in memory than it had done at the time. He had only really fought so hard against Malfoy because Malfoy was his enemy. He was, in many ways, no worse than any other Slytherin, no worse than the bullies of his childhood, better – in some ways – than some of them.

His brain clicked from memory to memory, a dimly-lit slideshow of mental memorabilia from their long rivalry. Out of nowhere, he remembered playing Slytherin at Quidditch with Malfoy as his opposing seeker, the two of them racing through the air, competing, with everything they had. It had been a good game, the one in his mind. Malfoy was a good opponent to fight against.

Though his stomach still curled with red-hot rage and humiliation at the thought of the events not long ago in the dungeons and Malfoy's many insults and all the things that had driven him to distraction over the years, he found it impossible to pin down a reason why his enmity with the other boy had gone so far.

Hermione had been right. It was childish. It was based on a grudge he'd held at eleven, a grudge founded on…nothing.

Harry couldn't keep his thoughts from straying to the memory of Snape's that he had caught a glimpse of so long ago. The humiliation inflicted upon Snape, the words they had spoken, the hatred you could almost taste between him and the Gryffindors who tormented him. And Harry's father's own answer as to why they couldn't let him be: "Well, it's more the fact that he exists, you see."

Harry's face felt strangely warm. He had been ashamed of his father then, ashamed of the people he admired most for acting in such a way. But given the chance, would he have behaved any differently to Malfoy, for any better reason? Of course, Snape was a friendless oddball and Malfoy was Slytherin's precious prince however…

It was undeniable. The only thing Harry would be able to articulate on the paper, the only thing he could say, would be the same as his father had said of Snape, all those years ago. Malfoy's only real fault, the one for which Harry had punished him and despised him all these years, was his existence.

He glanced across at Malfoy and saw himself, suddenly, through his enemy's eyes. The pride of Gryffindor, the hero of the hour, strutting about with his friends, admired by all, claiming to save the world. He saw what Malfoy must see: a boy so full of his own importance, so self-righteous, so convinced of his own heroism, and yet so wanted, so needed, so liked by all.

In that brief, short-lived flash of empathy, Harry hated himself for what he was and forgave Malfoy anything.

But it was short-lived and soon returned the recollection of Malfoy's smirk, his words in the dungeons, his superiority as he imprisoned Harry with the potion they had brewed, and all of Harry's softening feelings for him sped away. But they left ghosts behind.

"Well, this is a surprise," McGonagall said, sarcastically, when she returned after teaching her lesson. "Neither of you has written a word."

Harry glanced across and saw, too, that Malfoy's paper was blank and his ink untouched.

"What's the matter?" the professor asked. "Has the other person done nothing wrong? And yet you fought like that?"

Harry couldn't formulate a reply and, judging by his silence, neither could Malfoy.

"Alright," McGonagall sighed. "Ten points will be taken from Gryffindor and Slytherin. You can both go."

"We can?" Harry brightened. "I thought you were making us miss dinner!"

"Mr Potter, if I have to see either of your faces for another instant, it shall be too much. Get out of my office, and don't make me bring either of you here again!"

Harry leapt to his feet, shoving his things back into his schoolbag. Malfoy seemed equally eager, his sullen countenance lightening again.

"Oh, and Potter?" McGonagall called. "The headmaster wants to see you in his office."

Harry's stomach swooped oddly. He had been dreading those words ever since Dumbledore had come back. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about it, any of it, however much it would help in the end.

"A private visit to the headmaster, eh?" Malfoy said, as soon as they were out in the corridor. "What's it to be this time? Another nice chat about how wonderful you are?"

"Jealous, Malfoy?" Harry countered. "I'm not surprised. Not even your parents think you're wonderful."

Malfoy laughed shortly. "At least I have parents, Potter. You're not one to talk on that account."

"Listen, Malfoy," Harry began, before stopping abruptly.

How was he supposed to say this? What he had been intending to say? Had he really, even for a second, contemplated holding a rational conversation with Malfoy? Had he even…intended to…apologise?

"What is it, Potter?" Malfoy tapped his foot impatiently. "Still waiting for a kiss?"

All of Harry's good feelings vanished in a whip-crack of rage.

"Never mind," Harry snapped. "Piss off, Malfoy."

"With pleasure," Malfoy bowed ironically, and walked away.

Harry stood fuming at the unfairness of it. Why should this realisation of their own childishness be thrust upon him and not Malfoy? What kind of justice was that? Had he really come so close to apologising? It was sickening! He should have cut Malfoy down where he stood!

These furious thoughts occupied him until another crept into the back of his mind, one that nestled itself contentedly amongst his anger and refused to let it pass. Harry stood still in the middle of the empty corridor, arrested by the realisation.

Malfoy hadn't written anything either.


	9. Chapter 9 - A Party and A Conspiracy

Dumbledore's office was exactly as Harry remembered it: large and airy and crammed with miscellaneous items, the purpose of which he couldn't guess at. The headmaster, seated behind his desk, seemed unchanged as well.

"Harry," he smiled. "Sit down."

Harry took his seat nervously. He wondered if he was going to be reproached for not coming to see him sooner.

"You look distracted, Harry," Dumbledore mused. "What are you thinking about?"

"Oh! Nothing, Professor," Harry shook himself slightly. "Everything's fine."

"Harry, I'm a very old man and I've been a teacher most of my life. Don't even begin to think that will work on me."

Harry scowled down at his hands. "Honestly, it's nothing, sir."

"I hear you fell off your broom," Dumbledore prompted. "I wonder why that was…"

Harry gave up. There was no use lying to the headmaster. He was never quick enough.

"My scar hurt again," he admitted. "And I blacked out."

Dumbledore looked troubled. "I see. Was it just pain or…"

"There were visions," Harry confessed. "Nothing clear, not like before. Just snippets of things. Flashes. Professor…is the bond between us opening up again?"

Dumbledore steeped his fingers and studied Harry for a long time before replying.

"I shouldn't think so," he said, at last. "Voldemort is many things but he is rarely foolish. He would never seek to use the same trick twice, and would hate to have you prying in his mind."

"Then why…?"

"I expect that when he is weak, just as when you are weak, you are more susceptible to the influence of one another," Dumbledore pronounced. "I'm afraid there is very little you can do."

Harry sighed, dropping his head into his hands. "Fine. So I just have to live with Voldemort crawling about my head."

"You've done so up until now," Dumbledore pointed out. "I see no reason why you cannot handle it."

Harry closed his eyes against an encroaching headache. "I had a nightmare."

"A nightmare?"

Harry nodded. "It was awful. It was like…like I was dissolving. Like I was disappearing. And there was all this laughter…"

"Harry," Dumbledore said, with great sadness, "Harry, sometimes a nightmare is just a nightmare. Sometimes, even for you, a dream is merely an interpretation of your subconscious."

"Nobody else ever believes that," Harry muttered. "They always think it's Voldemort."

"People are prone to being dramatic," Dumbledore agreed. "It's a sin I'm guilty of. But you dream just like any other boy."

"Then why did I dream that?" Harry challenged. "What's that supposed to say about my subconscious?"

"If you want dreams interpreted, you should as Professor Trelawney. Or," he glanced at Harry's face, "perhaps not. However, I don't believe in the art of predicting the future according to your dreams. All they show is what you secretly think, however mangled it may appear. And nightmares…those are simply a representation of your fears."

"My fears," Harry murmured. "I'm afraid of dissolving?"

"If I were to judge, I'd say you were afraid of being nothing."

Harry considered this in silence. It was nothing if not true, but it seemed an unsatisfactory explanation.

"Now," Dumbledore brightened, "unless you have any other worries, shall we talk about Voldemort? Or, as we shall know him henceforth, Tom Riddle?"

"Yes!" Harry brushed the thoughts aside. "Yes, let's do that."

On the night of Slughorn's party, Harry met Luna in the entrance hall. She wore a dress that could best be described as 'spangled' but aside from its eye-watering brightness, she looked quite presentable. There were no radish-shaped earrings or butterbeer-cork necklaces, anyway.

"Err," Harry cleared his throat, "shall we go, then?"

Luna took his proffered arm and together they made their way towards Slughorn's vast office, where the party was being held. Luna chattered away brightly while Harry occupied himself with pretending not to notice the accusatory stares of Hogwarts' female population.

The office was sweltering from the press of bodies, a mix of students and some of Slughorn's fabled friends. Music sounded out, forcing everybody to converse at a half-shout. It was impossible to move without bumping into somebody and it took all of Harry's strength not to turn tail and run away.

"Harry! Harry, my boy!" Slughorn boomed, wading towards him through the crowds. "Harry, and young Miss Lovegood, so good to see you!"

"It's good to see you too, sir," Harry said, quickly. "I was just…"

"There are so many people just desperate to be introduced to you, Harry," Slughorn interrupted, putting an arm around his shoulders and steering him inexorably across the room. "Now, this here is…"

Harry didn't catch the name which was swallowed up by the music but shook the man's hand anyway, grimacing a smile.

"Harry Potter, Harry Potter, a true pleasure," the man beamed. "I, like everyone else, have been asking myself, where is that biography of Harry Potter we've all been waiting for?"

"Uh…have you?" Harry said, weakly.

"Absolutely, my dear boy! I'd be quite happy to write it for you, you know. Only a few small interviews, at absolutely no expense, say, an hour long each, and then…"

"Allow me to cut in," a young witch appeared unexpectedly by the man's arm. "You must forgive me, James, but I'm simply too enthusiastic to meet the Boy Who Lived."

She winked at Harry while the erstwhile James spluttered behind her, torn between his desire for an interview and good manners. At last, he muttered something inaudible and sloped away.

"Olivia Shrewsbury," the witch held out her hand. "Sorry to interrupt but James does tend to go on."

"Harry Potter," Harry shook her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

The witch laughed. "I doubt it. And your young lady?"

"Luna Lovegood," Luna said, solemnly. "We're here as friends."

"Ah, of course," Olivia shook back her hair. "One simply cannot have too many friends. I tend to scare all mine away."

She was young and pretty, all russet curls and dimples, perhaps in her early twenties. She had an accent Harry couldn't quite place and a glint in her eye that reminded him of the Weasley twins, or perhaps of Hermione when she finally found the answer to a complicated problem.

"I'm not actually a guest at the party," she whispered. "Don't tell anyone. I'm staying at Hogwarts at Dumbledore's request and I thought I would sneak down and join in."

"At Dumbledore's request?" Harry leant forward eagerly. "Why? What are you doing?"

"Top secret," Olivia winked. "Well, maybe not from you, but this is a public place. Don't worry. I'm on your side."

"Are you in the Order?" Harry wrinkled his brow trying to remember if he had met her before.

"Not exactly," Olivia hesitated. "I live abroad. I'm…an overseas agent."

"Are you spying on us or spying on them?" Harry knew his tone bordered on rude but something about Olivia seemed too intelligent to make him comfortable.

"On them," Olivia promised. "But if you want to be careful around me, I don't mind. I'm used to it. By the way, that boy is staring at you."

Harry turned round sharply, his eyes scanning the room, but he could see nobody looking his way.

"Boy?" he asked. "What boy?"

Olivia shrugged. "Good-looking one. Blonde. About your age, though I suppose most people at Hogwarts are. Sorry. I'm just in the habit of looking out for things."

Harry scanned the crowd again, his heart thumping unnecessarily. Blonde and good-looking? He hoped she wasn't – but feared she was – talking about Malfoy. But then, why would Malfoy be at the party? No, he was being unnecessarily paranoid.

"Lovegood, did you say?" Olivia had turned to Luna. "Would you be Pandora's daughter, by any chance?"

Luna's face lit up like a sunbeam. "Yes! You knew her?"

"We were at school together," Olivia told her. "I remember the wedding. You look so much like her, you know. She had that same dreamy look, like she was off talking with mermaids even when you were right in front of her."

Harry turned away as a commotion broke out behind him. The crowd parted to reveal Filch dragging a mutinous Malfoy into the centre of the room.

"Professor!" Filch was yelling. "Professor, I apprehended this reprobate lurking around the corridor outside! He _said_ he'd been invited to the party."

"Alright, so I wasn't invited!" Malfoy snapped, wrenching his arm out of Filch's grip. "I lied. So what? Let go of me, you mad old man!"

Filch swelled with indignation. "Professor, I demand…!"

"Now, now, Filch, let's not be hasty," Slughorn pushed his way through the spectators. "Mr Malfoy is my guest. It's Christmas, after all. Nothing wrong with wanting to join in the party. He may stay."

Harry's eyes narrowed. Far from looking delighted, Malfoy looked even more furious. However, he nodded once and the crowd began to dissolve, Filch storming away in a rage of his own, muttering about letting the old punishments die and how they would all come to regret it one day. Snape slid out of the shadows, snake-like.

"Malfoy?" he said, lip curling. "Come with me."

"Now, Severus, don't be too hard on the boy," Slughorn sounded disappointed. "It is the season to be jolly and all."

"While I'm sure he appreciates your generosity," Snape said the words as though they tasted foul, "Mr Malfoy is in my house and I shall decide how to treat him."

Malfoy glared at his house master but did not protest. Instead, he followed meekly behind him out of the study and into the corridor. Harry watched them go thoughtfully.

"Hey, Luna?" he turned round again. "I'm just going to get a breath of fresh air. It's stuffy in here. Uh…a pleasure to meet you, Miss Shrewsbury."

The two of them nodded vaguely and ignored him, deep in a conversation about mermaid breeding rights and protected habitats. Harry left them too it; they seemed happy enough. As he walked away, he saw Olivia turned to watch him go with a look in her eye that bothered him. She was more astute than he liked strangers to ever be.

Draco shrugged off Snape's restraining hand as soon as they were out of earshot of the study.

"You didn't have to do that," he snapped. "Stop interfering."

"Why are you walking around here after curfew?" Snape kept his voice lowered, dangerous. "Is hanging about the corridors part of your plan?"

"What if it is?" Draco lifted his chin, insolently. "I told you. Stop interfering."

Normally, Draco liked his house master. Well, perhaps 'liked' was too strong a word. He respected him, in his own way, and the two of them had got along well. He remembered Snape coming to the house when Draco was only a child, staying up late talking to his father, drinks in hand. He never had much time for children but, then, who did at Malfoy Manor? Draco had admired him.

But this, this constant pestering, the interference, the added pressure it gave, was growing unbearable. If Snape could just back off, stop fluttering about him, keep his distance for a while, then perhaps Draco would be able to think clearly, perhaps he would be able to see past his distractions.

"I made a vow to your mother," Snape hissed, "that I would protect you."

"Well, you're going to have to break your vow," Draco glared at him. "You've both got it all wrong. I don't need your help!"

 _Yes,_ he thought, desperately. _Yes, I do. Help me. Help me. Carry the burden for me. Make it stop. I can't do this, I can't do this, I'm going to get myself killed. Help me._

"Your plans so far have been laughable," Snape told him. "If you keep making wild attempts like that, you're going to be found out."

"Relax." Malfoy tried to sound bored, to summon his lazy cool. "I have a plan, one you would never even dream of. It'll be ready soon. You'll see."

"Draco, this is not a game!" Snape loomed over him. "I made an Unbreakable Vow. I will help you. I will protect you. Just tell me what you're planning."

Draco folded his arms obstinately. "No."

He felt the tickling at the back of his mind, a feeling like eyes boring into his skull. He pushed it back and smiled sweetly, the look that charmed his mother and infuriated his father.

"I see your Auntie Bella has been teaching you occlumency," Snape sounded disapproving. "What does she think you have to hide?"

"Perhaps she doesn't want you interfering with my plans," Draco drew himself up to his full height.

"Or perhaps you want to be able to keep secrets from our master," Snape began, before breaking off abruptly. "Let's talk somewhere else. Somewhere private."

 _Yes, let's do that. Let's talk and let me tell you everything. Everything I've planned, everything I'm going to do, everything I'm afraid of. Let me tell you about the dreams I've been having. Let me tell you about those thoughts, let me tell you about…_

"No," Draco stepped away from him. "I'm going to the party."

"Draco," Snape snapped, but Draco had had enough.

"I'm going to the party," he repeated. "Stop trying to interfere. I can handle it."

"You can't."

Draco lifted his chin and walked past Snape as though he didn't exist.

"Watch me," he said.

Snape made no effort to follow him.

Back inside, the party was just as loud and crowded as ever. People jostled Draco from all sides but he ignored them, slipping through the crowd, trying to find his way to the corner. Perhaps he would just stand there and drink a butterbeer or two and the evening would not be a total loss. There was always something to be said for being the spectre at the feast.

"Malfoy." He felt a hand on his arm. "Hey, Malfoy."

He turned sharply and there was Potter, all earnest eyes and an attempt at a serious frown which only made him look perplexed, like a puppy when it first discovers it has a tail. Draco's mind flashed with the memory of Potter's face close to his, his pupils dilated, his lips parted, his cheeks blushing red in sudden and bewildered embarrassment…

Draco jerked back from him, glowering. "I told you to stay away from me, Potter."

"Malfoy, listen," Potter began, but Draco cut him off.

"Keep your distance," he said, putting all his fear and rage and hate into his voice, putting all the violence he was suppressing into his words. "Keep away. Or, I swear, I will kill you."

He must have sounded convincing because, for once, Potter didn't argue. Draco stormed away from him, feeling the heat rising to his face, feeling the fury boiling in his stomach. He tucked himself away into a shadowy corner mercifully free of embracing couples and glared out at the world until he felt his heartbeat return to normal.

It had all got too much, too dangerous. The world was suddenly not as straight forward as it had been, all the shades of white and black one indistinguishable grey. Draco closed his eyes and breathed in deep, as if that would help in this sweltering place. He concentrated on levelling his pulse.

Soon it would be over. Soon his plan would be complete and his family's honour restored. Soon, he would have proved himself. Soon, Potter would be dead and there would be an end to it all.


End file.
